


Ink Demonth 2020

by Pangolin_404



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: The ink demonth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:47:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 37,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25621606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pangolin_404/pseuds/Pangolin_404
Summary: A 31 day challenge from Tumblr. The organizer said that writing is allowed when partaking in this, so here's hoping I get something down for every prompt!
Comments: 56
Kudos: 60





	1. Cake

Wally hummed a tune to himself. The office halls were spooky at night, with the pipes rumbling and ink churning in the walls. It was definitely something weird to get used to. He even picked up on specific noises the pipes made, and could alert Tom if a pipe sounded ready to burst. He did often forget to do that, though.

The ambience rumbled on as he wiped down desks. Dirt was rarely trekked all the way down here, so there was no need to sweep all that often. His job here was mostly organizing things and dusting.

He finished up an office and was soon on his way to the next. He rounded a corner, and then paused. Under the reeking stench of ink and dust, he could smell something different. Something sweet.

Now, Wally got distracted easily. Who could blame him, after a long day of cleaning the studio top to bottom? He let his broom lean against the wall and immediately forgot about it. He followed his nose and rounded a corner, his eyes peeled for the source of the smell. He'd recognize that sweet scent of heaven anywhere, especially on longer days like this.

Chocolate.

"Why, Alice Angel herself must be-a smiling down on me..." He mumbled under his breath. He couldn't quite believe what was in the office in front of him. An untouched, pristine chocolate cake.

Baffled at his luck, he looked around. Nobody in sight. Wally peered back where he'd come from, saw nobody, and tiptoed towards the cake. Was this a trap or something? If it was, then whoever set it up knew him well. He slipped off his work gloves, deciding that he deserved this cake for his hard work, and dug in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll admit, not many options for day one's prompt, but the others have a lot more creative flexibility. Sammy was asking for it! Who brings an entire cake to work?


	2. Memory

_"You sure about this, Sammy?" Jack asked, holding the fiddle awkwardly. Sammy adjusted it in his grip. "I just write songs, I don't go-a playin' them."_

_"I think you're being foolish. Everyone can play if they find the right instrument!" Sammy was many things, including stubborn. As Jack finally rest his chin on the fiddle's rest properly, he went on, "And I think you'd play excellently of you'd just try."_

_"If you say so. Just don't say I didn't warn ya." He shrugged and nearly dropped the fiddle. He managed to get it back on the correct position after another moment of adjustment,his face turning a flustered pink. "I can barely read sheet music, Sammy."_

_"Lots of famous musicians couldn't read sheet music, actually. Now, put your fingers here. And here's the bow..." More adjusting. Then Sammy stepped back, looking happier than Jack's seen him in a while. "Straighten your posture- good, that's perfect!"_

_"You're pretty set on teaching me how to play this thing-"_

_"Don't talk, you'll mess up your position! And...I suppose it's because I want to. Do I really need a reason to share my interests with my friend?"_

The searcher, swollen and slow with thick ink, wiped at where his eyes once were. He stared at the fiddle leaning against a chair, untouched for years. It was his. As warped as his mind was, he knew that was _his_ fiddle. Sammy had given it to him. Insisted it was the perfect instrument for him.

Jack reached out and moved. Moving was nearly impossible for swollen searchers, but he was determined. He pulled himself onto the platform, letting go of his pipe valve in favor of grasping for his fiddle.

He pulled it towards himself and slunk back into his usual hunched position. He rest his head on the fiddle and raised the bow awkwardly. It had been a long time since he'd touched it. He swam through the thick mud of his mind for anything. Any songs, anything to do now that he had it in his hands.

"Jack?"

The searcher nearly jumped out of his 'skin', turning to see Sammy. The grinning face of Bendy stared down at him, slightly tilted. He tightened his grip on his fiddle. Sammy may look like Bendy, but he was much nicer. He wouldn't hurt him. As muddled as his mind was, he knew that Sammy was his friend.

"That's... _your_ fiddle." A pause. Sammy approached him, ink sticking to his pant legs with every step. "...I never thought about who it belonged to. Hm. I..." He rubbed his head.

Jack dragged the bow over the strings, producing a truly awful noise. Sammy winced. "Don't- don't do that!"

He gurgled up at the cultist, apparently displeased, and raised his bow as if threatening to do it again. Sammy stepped into what used to be Jack's office and scrutinized him. "I... Did I give this to you? Did you always have that...? I- No matter, come here."

With effort, Jack squirmed as close to the platform as he could. His perpetual drooping frown became slightly upturned. Sammy knelt in front of him and helped him hold the instrument properly.

"I'll teach you."


	3. Work

Deep in the inner workings of the studio, there was a hall. It sat dark and flooded with ink, and the only sound was the clicking of several projectors echoing down the old walls. The squares of bright, looping cartoons projected onto barren walls were the only thing lighting the place up.

And something moved. Adding to the lulling background noise was a soft slosh. Then another, as step by step, slowly but surely, something made its way through the ink.

The Projectionist made his way through the maze of halls. He made a natural unnatural mash of sounds and noises, with the rattle his broken speaker let out and, despite lacking reels save for the one lodged in his shoulder, the whirring of a projector running.

Slouched over the weight of his own head, he trudged onwards. He had a job, his namesake, and he would do it, whether aware of his own actions or not. His lagging, spotty memory couldn't recall a time he wasn't him, wasn't the projectionist. The rhythm of his work dulled the want or need of curiosity and feeling. It was constant and unchanging.

He came across the first projector. Body creaking, he leaned down to examine it. Hands and arms built with lean muscle, bandages earned from his work soaked into his very flesh, he lifted it. Nothing escaped the light of his lens. He took in everything- ink smudges that couldn't be washed out, scuffs of many years' existence, the way the reels rattled as if their supports were just a tad bit unparallel.

He raised a hand to his own head, feeling along those rabbit-ear supports. They were uneven and stuck out a little- completely unfit for playing a reel. And then his hand dropped back down and the thought led to nothing.

Several minutes ticked by of him poking and prodding the projector. He took his time examining it before deeming it in working order. He set it back down and turned to the short clip that played, that's always been playing. It was straight and perfect. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded to himself. All was right, everything was as it should be.

And then he was back sloshing through ink, his boots long since fused to the rest of him. A little scuffed and worn, but all that was caked with years of the same routine. Ink, dried and fresh, layered upon the soles, flaking off only sometimes and squishing as if filled with water. The vague discomfort tickled at the back of his mind, continuing to grow with every step, beginning to become something pestering, something he couldn't ignore. The feeling of being fused to his clothing, of not quite feeling the ink squish underfoot and the itch of his shirt plastered into him, reached its peak-

-and then it was gone. He reached the next projector, and his one-track mind had something else to focus on.

This one was wrong. The reels had fallen, somehow, with film tangling into itself all around. He knelt and lifted them out of the ink. Completely soaked through with ink and _ruined_.

He let go of the reels and walked over then towards a shelf pushed against a wall. Wood cracked and the reels snapped under his boots. Splinters dug into him, but he paid it no mind. The stimuli, the new thing he was doing absorbed his entire being. The mere act of looking up at the shelf of reels felt new and, if he had the conscience to put words to the pit in his chest, daunting. He had never done this.

Still, powered by some unknown knowledge of what to do, he plucked the needed reels from their snug spot with so many others. Moving more sure of himself, now, he clicked them into place in the projector. A new cartoon clip began to play, to loop for potentially years to come.

And just like that, everything was back to normal. Already he was forgetting what he'd done differently, already he was turning and walking away. He had other projectors to take care of.

More work to be done.


	4. Denial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll admit, this had me stumped for a while. Eventually came up with something a little different! Hope this turned out okay!

" _Oh, my! Shawn? Shawn Flynn?"_ A voice sang from above. _"Or are you a slug who stole his hat?_ "

The lost one didn't respond. He looked like he'd been thrown into a washing machine. One leg, torn to shreds, left a trail of ink as he limped through Heavenly Toys. One of his eyes lacked the golden hue it should've had, and the black socket left behind dripped thick beads of ink down his face. Part of his lower ribs seemed to have simply caved in. Ink dribbled down the side of his head. He stared up at nothing, his arms dangling limp at his sides. He wore a scully cap that was scuffed and torn and soaked with ink.

" _What are you doing tracking your filthy, tainted ink all over my floors?_ "

He jolted, but didn't speak. The thing called Shawn looked around the room. Before turning and limping into a particular room. It had a conveyer belt for toys that hadn't been turned on in a while.

" _Are you deaf? Answer me!_ " The voice turned sharp and snappy. She growled from a place unseen.

Shawn's working eye landed on a Bendy plush sitting on the belt. Without a second of hesitation, he picked it up and launched it across the room. It hit the opposite wall with a squeak and bounced onto the floor. His breathing picked up and he turned away from the plush, only to see a poster that held Bendy's grinning face. _Work hard, work happy._

Soon it was facing his wrath, too,as he tore it town, his breath catching in his throat in a bubbling whine. He crumbled up the paper in shaky, bleeding hands. It became unrecognizable mush as his ink trickled into it. He let it drop into a nearby waste bin. After looking around and seeing no other posters that held Bendy's likeness, he turned his attention to an unfinished Alice Angel doll. He was shaking and breathing hard.

" _...did you encounter the Ink Demon, by any chance?_ " The voice turned sickly sweet. " _Oh! You poor thing! I-_ "

Shawn mumbled something. He picked up a train without wheels and examined it.

" _What was that?_ "

"I said, _shuddahp_ , lass, I'm...tryin' ta do me job..."

The voice gasped, as if scandalized. " _Are you telling_ me _, an_ angel _, to shut up? You lowlife, cruel-_ " but she wasn't being heard.

Undeterred, Shawn pulled open a drawer. It was full of various sizes of wheels. He picked one up.

Without another word, he stuck the wheels onto the train. He tilted his head. "This little guy...needs to be painted, don'tcha think? Now, maybe black..."

A glob of ink fell over his working eye, and he idly wiped it away. The glow was dull, but he didn't seem bothered much by it. He set the train on a desk shoved against a corner. He started pulling open desks and taking out brushes of various sizes.

"Paint, paint, do we got no paint in- aha!" He took out an ink well. "This'll do just fine and dandy!"

Shawn dipped a thin brush into the ink and started painting, humming merrily to himself. He coated the train with practiced strokes, muscle memory waking up from its dormancy. He traced the lines of its wheels and coated its top in smooth, black ink.

" _...have you lost your mind?_ "

"The only thing I'm losin' is my fookin' patience! I wanna do my job for once, lady, we can chitchat or go out for drinks o- or whatever ya want la-" his voice caught and he doubled over, dropping the brush as he fell into a coughing fit. He clutched the desk, his frail body shaking with every violent cough. He gasped for air and then retched. Thick strands of ink fell off of his arms and splattered to the ground.

" _Hm...you lost ones don't fare well against injury, do you?_ "

Shawn responded by throwing up.

" _Oh, that's disgusting_."

He wiped ink from his excuse of a mouth and shuddered. "Ugh..." He shook his head and straightened his cap despite not needing to. It seemed practically glued to his head.

A tremble ran through his arms as he picked up the paintbrush. He cleared his throat. It sounded wet. "I'm a tad bit under the weather, so stop makin' me talk! Need me a cup 'o dirty bean water and I'll perk right up..."

" _Oh, you've lost it. I'll let you die in peace, then._ "

The toymaker looked over the train and set it aside. He stumbled over to the conveyer belt. With great effort, he pulled down the lever and turned it on. The machine groaned before the belt began moving.

Apparently satisfied, he picked up an unfinished plane from the floor. He brought it to his desk and set it down. Then he started opening up drawers and crates at random, looking for the parts he needed. All the while, ink dripped off of his arms and legs. The hole in his side still bled thick strings of slimy ink that stuck to his hips and spine. Ink was beginning to drip over his lightless eye and cover it.

Still, though, he worked. As if it were a normal day in the studio, many years ago. Toy planes were put together and lined up on a shelf. Little trains got fresh, inky paint jobs. Alice Angel and Boris plushies were packed into their respective crates and stacked in corners.

Even as he fell apart, he hummed to himself and did his job.


	5. Bendy Royal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah this one kicked me in the shins just take it.

Henry ran into the elevator, panicking. He abandoned his task of collecting ink hearts and instead spammed the button for 'Level K'. Mainly because the Ink Demon was running after him. The Ink Demon, who was wearing a suit and tie. Based on the smoldering blast crater of where the Projectionist had once stood, he wasn't very scared to kick the loop's normalcy aside and go feral.

Much to his relief, the gates rattled shut. He saw the Ink Demon striding up the stairs after him right as he began to rise, head tilted to meet his gaze.

After what felt like too long, level 14 was out of sight. The walls soaked with Bendy's aura became untainted wood again. He leaned against the gate with a sigh, rubbing his eyes. "What the hell..."

His heart calmed down while the elevator rose. It clinked to a stop, and he still took a moment to breathe before stepping out.

"Aw, back so soon?" Alice cooed. "Did my old friend scare you?"

Henry just sighed and shook his head. He trudged onwards, his mind jumbled. This loop was a mess. Not even because Sammy had knocked him out with the butt of a gun. Not just because of Wally's messed up audio logs. Seriously, he was a kid!

He just needed to breathe. Maybe find a miracle station for good measure. Yeah, no matter what happens, he was safe in a miracle station-

He dropped like a sack of bricks.

Something had fallen from who knows where and struck him in the head. It clattered beside him, a sharp blade cutting across his shoulder. Henry didn't get up.

Wally laughed, his voice crackling over the audio log's distortion. "I told 'im I was gunna kill him!"


	6. Instrument

As much as Sammy loved setting up shrines and offerings for his Lord, he sometimes desired a break. Typically that involved one of the many instruments laying around the music department. Something to drown out the dormant searchers that always sat around near the stairs.

He stood in the band hall, taking his spot behind the music stand on reflex. He perched there and observed his options, drumming his fingers atop the stand.

Four fingers. That would probably narrow down playing the piano. But he didn't need to be good to enjoy it, he reminded himself. When was the last time he'd even played? A few days ago? No, no, longer than that.

Perhaps he'd be better fit with the violin. He hummed a thoughtful note. His memory failed him. He couldn't recall last he'd even touched one.

He was never one for drums, so those were out of the question. He began pacing, looking the cello up and down for a brief moment before shaking his head. Nothing felt right to him. Maybe he should've stuck to his banjo, but he couldn't remember where he'd last placed it. He'll stumble across it eventually. But until then...

Frustrated, he left the room entirely and wandered down the familiar halls of the department. _His_ department. He was a musician! Why in the world was it so difficult for him to just click with something, anything, and unwind?

"Ah!"

He stared at the instrument in front of him. A small pipe organ. He didn't remember it being there before. That glitch in his memory only vaguely concerned him, and was quickly dropped when he concluded that this would be it, this was what he'd play. Soft light illuminated the keys like a spotlight from heaven itself. What a beautiful instrument, so tempting to be played.

He stood before it, eager to play, before reminding himself it was probably in desperate need of tuning. His fingers grazed the keys for only a moment before pressing down on one at random.

A single perfect note hung in the air, much to his pleasant surprise, only to be interrupted by a low, dragging groan. Sammy looked over his shoulder sharply, already opening his mouth to shout at whatever had interrupted him, half expecting to find a wandering searcher. But there was nothing behind him.

He stepped back and looked out of the short hall. To the left, nothing. To the right, nothing. Not a soul in sight. There was no ink where a searcher could've hid in, either...

Reluctantly, he returned to the pipe organ and pressed his fingers over the keys. Again, it sounded fine-

" _No...!_ " A male voice croaked, sending a shudder through Sammy's body. He recoiled.

"Who's there?" He called out, but got no answer. "That isn't funny!"

Silence.

He returned to the pipe organ and decided to just play. Whoever was pulling the rather disturbing prank wasn't going to get under his skin! The searchers here were rather quiet, so this one must be new and cruel. He wouldn't let it get to him.

And so he played a meaningless tune, telling himself what whoever was messing with him could just be drowned out. Another dragging groan rattled out, but he didn't stop. Nobody would get the satisfaction of getting a rise out of him! Out of spite, or just to channel his annoyance into something, he pressed down harder on the keys.

" _For the love of God, stop..!_ " The voice cried, wet and labored, and Sammy yanked his hands back as if he'd been burned. His heart jumped into his throat and he took a quick step away from the organ, tense, but all was silent again.

He decided that maybe there were better things to do with his free time.


	7. Chilling

The Lost Harbor was typically a quiet place. There was the occasional bout of buzz when someone new came along, but overall, it was peacefully quiet.

He appreciated that. He spent his days at the docks, away from any bustle. He fished. Even if at most he reeled up a soup can, fishing was his favorite thing to do. No worries. No responsibility. Sure, he pulled his weight when something needed building or fixing, but outside of that he sat and fished.

The rumble of a barge alerted him. He looked up to see a rather old man leading the glorified raft into the docks. He looked grizzled, his entire being stained with ink and handprints. He looked like the well itself had sucked him in and spat him back out.

...not his problem.

He returned to keeping a firm hold on his fishing rod. He was careful not to squeeze too tight. After so long in his hands, the pole was so soaked with ink where his hands were that it would probably snap if manhandled. And he _really_ didn't want to go through the hassle of finding a new fishing pole...

The stranger docked and stepped out. He glanced over briefly. A Gent pipe, top stained with wet ink, was clutched in his hands. That concerned him, but only briefly. Luckily for him, the stranger barely looked at him, and walked right by. Not a threat, so he let it slide out of his thoughts.

The ink lake rumbled ever so lightly. Guess the stranger made the hand mad. It never came too close, at most stirring up long sunken items. Maybe he'd pull something up now! That sounded lovely-

"BETRAYED! ABANDONED!"

With a sigh, he craned his neck to see what was happening _now_. The raving not-searcher who'd come in earlier only to hide away had burst through the boards. His chest was heaving and he trembled as he stumbled out. Wielding an axe as if it weighed nothing, he swung madly at the stranger. "I trusted you! I gave you _everything_!"

...what.

Dumbfounded, he watched as they exchanged blows. The human landed solid hits with the pipe, barely getting cut with the axe. Impressive. For a moment he wondered if he'd get caught in the crossfire, but they kept their distance. Why they were fighting or what was going on, he found he really didn't care.

So he turned back to fishing.


	8. Soup

"I am never doing that again!"

The wretched Boris who manipulated Sammy whined, making frantic motions trying to communicate. He paid no mind to his charades and instead stormed out of the room in a huff, throwing the supplies he'd gathered onto the workbench. "Su- Alice nearly ripped my head off!"

Boris yet again let out a noise attempting to talk. He followed Sammy and attempted to set a gloved hand on his shoulder.

"Don't _touch_ me, you cursed mutt!"

He shrugged off his hand and stormed off. The upbeat piano music coming from the phonograph didn't calm his nerves like it usually did. He slumped into one of the few chairs dotted around the safehouse and crossed his arms.

Boris again whimpered, but he wasn't budging. "I will stew in my hatred for as long as I like, lest I take it out on you!" Sammy snapped. Boris's ears lowered and he looked away. Refusing to look too long and start feeling guilty, Sammy did the same.

Even when Boris retreated, Sammy sat in his own spite. His heart still thudded in his throat, but he no longer felt like he was about to pass out. A heavy breath left his lips and he rest his head in his hands. Never again was he going to gamble on where the damned lift would drop him.

The Bendy clock on the wall ticked away. Seconds, then minutes went by, and Sammy no longer felt like he wanted to throw Boris down the lift shaft. His heart settled in his chest.

Boris returned, a can of bacon soup clasped in his hands. "Ah...thank you." Sammy accepted the offering. He pulled the tab back on the can. Truthfully he was sick of the stuff and didn't need to eat, but food would probably get his energy back.

He didn't remove his mask, and ended up spilling soup all over himself.

There was a brief period of silence. Snickering, Boris clasped a hand over his face in a vain attempt to hide a growing grin.

Sammy didn't say anything for a moment. He slowly set the can down. "Don't...say anything." He hissed, shoulders tensing. Even the(now soup-stained) mask in all its grinning glory somehow conveyed a shaking anger. Boris let out a sharp laugh, then quickly held his mouth shut. He shook with effort and took a step back, holding up one hand in surrender.

Sammy threw the half-empty soup can at him anyways.


	9. Mirror

"I'm sorry, Susie."

Alice paced in her stressing room. She was getting better, but anything less than perfect simply wasn't good enough. Half her face was still mangled and bubbly with tainted ink. Her mouth was curled into a disgusted frown.

Susie made her. Her love, her voice was what helped pull her from the wells. She made her with the intention to be perfect, but...

That goal was so far away.

Alice stepped in front of the mirror. It was unnaturally clean compared to the rest of her safe heaven, with not a speck of dust or ink tainting the glass. Not a crack in sight, either. Nothing to obscure or warp the imperfect reflection that looked back at her, to make her second guess the reality of her appearance.

She was failing Susie, and that hurt her deeply. She was created to be perfect, and she had to achieve it. She was so close but so far away. Her face was a prime example. So horrid and flawed.

It took so many Boris to come this far. Just a few more. Just a few more ink hearts. A few more perfect pieces. And then she'd be _truly_ , _beautifully_ , _perfect_.

Her slender, ink black hands dug into the desk. She glared at herself, willing the face that glared back to change, to repair itself. The wrinkle between her brows and the way her shoulders hunched as she leaned forwards wasn't helping. Stress caused wrinkles and flaws.

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and exhaled. She stepped back from her mirror, running a hand through her hair. "Calm down," she told herself, "Just calm down."

Wrinkles were such a pointless, human flaw. An angel shouldn't have to deal with them. Her shoulders relaxed and she continued her slow, deep breaths for just a few more seconds. For good measure.

When she opened her eyes, she saw her goal looking back at her. A perfect Alice Angel, with a perfect round face, smiling back-

-and then it was gone. Alice bowed her head and grit her teeth. Soon. Soon, she would look like that. Just a little more.

Then she'd truly be an angel.


	10. Mechanic

"Tom! Please don't run off ahead like that!" Allison was quick to rejoin her companion. Tom tightened his grip on his axe and he looked back at her, only for his gaze to fall where his left arm once was. "I'm sorry, it's just... This place is new. It could be dangerous."

Tom's gaze hardened and he nodded. Allison set a hand on his shoulder. "Let's stick together, okay? This place..." She looked up at the looming sign. _Bendy Hell_. "...it gives me the creeps."

Together this time, they explored the new area. Nothing moved here, it seemed. The air was stale. There was only one sign of life, and that was where no dust had settled on the floor. There was only one trail through the dust- like someone had walked through the same path many, many times, scuffed footprints blending into a solid trail. It went to the attractions mainly but, by the looks of it, it let primarily down a lone hallway.

"Hello? Is anyone here?" Allison called out, keeping one hand on one of her swords. "We won't hurt you!"

No reply.

She let go of Tom and stepped into the hall. It ended in a little room with a table across one wall. Laying across that table was a Bendy animatronic.

"Oh, I...don't like that."

Here, the dust was less layered on. The floor was well swept and dust had built up only in corners. She stepped to the side to let Tom join her. He grunted at the sight, his lips pulling back to bare his teeth at the machine. Despite that reaction, he stepped closer.

"C-careful, Tom! What if-" she stopped herself from saying what really concerned her. He raised an eyebrow and motioned to the animatronic with his axe. He knew what she wanted to say. "What if whoever built this is still around? We shouldn't mess with it."

He _did_ pause and consider this. But only for a moment. Then he was turning back to the creepy machine and setting his axe beside it. He flicked it and, when it remained still, he started poking and prodding more.

Allison didn't get any closer, but she did grip her sword tighter. "I think this is a bad idea, I-"

Tom lifted the animatronic's arm, only to let it drop. It hit the table with a heavy, solid clank. His intentions dawned on her, and she frowned. "Whoever was here would notice! It'd be rude to take this apart, and..." She trailed off, then sighed. She couldn't even look at the robot, it unsettled her so much. "Oh, alright. I'll wait outside."

She turned and left, only casting back a single glance to see her friend already unwinding a crank to lock the arm in place. She shuddered and hurried off.

With the arm soon locked securely in place, he began to work. The animatronic was soon no longer creepy to him. Its eyes held no light behind them. It was limp when jostled. Even when he pried one of its facial platings off, it didn't move.

The engineering of the machine impressed him. Whoever built it was probably dead, he concluded, but he still admired their work. He tore the machine in half a tad bit rougher than he intended, but he wanted to see how it worked. He wanted to open it up and look at its insides, to pick it apart-

It moved.

He stumbled back, letting out a little 'woof' in alarm. The animatronic twitched and its head turned. The arm in the clamp twisted around and grasped at nothing, while the other one reached out towards him. It moved awkwardly, only able to pull itself along with one arm. One arm that could probably pop his head off.

It lurched and looked back at itself. Swaying, it seemed to realize it was severed in half, and shook violently. Its grip on the table slipped and it fell forwards, toppling off and crashing to the floor.

Tom steeled himself and grabbed his axe. He hit the possessed thing with the broad side. Unsettlingly, ink spurt from the bare, empty eye socket. Was it essentially bleeding? Ink began to flow from where he'd bisected it in light dribbles.

He raised his axe and hit it again. It pressed itself down and swatted at him pathetically. The arm in the clamp groaned. Wires stretched and snapped, and suddenly the arm was ripped free.

With a third and final strike, it became still.

He set the axe down. A second later, he heard Allison rush in. He didn't look up at her, instead staring at the table where it had once lay. It had _moved_. Just a glitch. Old circuits firing up. Nothing more. "I-I heard a crash, is everything alright?"

Tom looked down at the upper half of the animatronic now laying on the floor. He nodded and opened up the clamp to retrieve the arm. His arm soon to be, hopefully. If all went well. He wanted this to be over with.

Allison scrutinized the scene and set a hand on her hip, clearly not convinced. Tom motioned to the robot, then the table. _It fell_ , he tried to convey. She frowned at him, but out her sword away. "...if you say so. Let's go, alright, Tom? This place gives me the creeps."

She walked past him and lifted the animatronic up. With a huff, she laid it on the table. "...seemed rude to leave it on the floor." She muttered.

He just nodded, keeping an eye on the still unmoving animatronic. Allison picked up his axe for him and set her free hand on his shoulder. "I'll help you get it on. Let's head back to the safehouse. I...don't trust this place."

He couldn't agree more.


	11. Bargaining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fact you can't not kill Jack is a travesty, really

"What are you doing?"

"Getting the valve."

"But Jack never lets it go."

Henry paused, already pulling the lever to lift up the crate. Jack was pressed into a corner, indeed clutching the pipe valve. Muscle memory was already mapping out where Jack could pop up, what the chances were of him appearing under the crate, how quickly he could get it over with.

He looked at Sammy, who stared back at him with that unnerving mask. Even now, with them traveling together, the sight unnerved him. Those lifeless pie-cut eyes had instilled a deep unease within him. Sammy refused to take it off, though. Maybe he found comfort in it, based on how he ran his fingers along the edge and tapped below the mouthpiece idly when thinking. Like now.

It took a few moments for the ex-prophet to realize what he was planning to do. When he did, though, he gasped and placed an offended hand over his chest. "You were going to _kill_ him?!"

Henry raised his hands and stepped away from the levers. "Hey, there's no way of getting him to let it go. I've tried. Trust me, I've tried."

"So you just _crush_ him?!" Sammy backed up, intentionally putting himself between him and Jack. The swollen searcher clutched his pant leg in one hand, keeping the valve securely in the other. "I thought you were a pacifist!"

"I-I am when I can be- Well, you're here now! Why don't you get it, then? I didn't know you were even aware Jack existed down here, let alone cared about him." Henry stepped back to give them room.

He turned to face Jack, who was trembling in place and sinking lower towards the ink. "Well I _do_ \- Anyways! Jack, we need that valve. So hand it over." He held out his hand expectantly.

The searcher looked at his outstretched hand and simply tilted his head. He let out a nonsensical moan that _might've_ signaled confusion. After several seconds of neither budging, Sammy very slowly inched his hand forward and set it on the valve. Jack watched him, even as he wrapped his hand around it. Only when he try taking it did he find any resistance. His odd friend let out a frustrated gurgle and tugged the valve out of Sammy's hold with a huff.

"Do you want me to say please?" Sammy asked dryly. His tone shifted to a softer pitch, and he knelt down in front of him. "We need it. Please, Jack? You can take it back when we're gone. It won't take long."

Still, the searcher didn't let it go.

"Well, I've got nothing!" He stood up and threw his hands into the air, exasperated.

"We can still-"

"If you lay a finger on him, I _will_ end you, Henry."

"Alright, alright! Sorry, I'm not used to different options here..." Henry sighed and leaned against the opposite wall. "Hm..."

They stewed in silence for several long seconds.

Suddenly, Sammy jolted upright. He snapped his fingers somehow, mumbled something too fast to be deciphered, and darted back down the sewer tunnel. Jack watched him go, slowly turned to Henry, and shrank back with a whine. He held the valve against his chest like a lifeline.

"So...hi. I'm Henry Stein. I used to work here as a cartoonist. You're the lyricist, right? Jack Fain?" Maybe conversation would lighten him up?

Sadly, he didn't get much of a response, as Jack just whimpered like a sad puppy. He felt guilty, like he should be trying harder to break out of his routine.

Jack heard it before he did. He inclined his head, and soon Henry heard it, too. Ink sloshing, as Sammy returned. Jack visibly eased up and straightened, leaning forwards to watch him enter.

"I have returned!" He held a fiddle in one hand and its bow in the other. "I'm sure you remember this, Jack. How about we tr-"

The searcher nearly toppled him over, dropping the valve within seconds of seeing the instrument. "I've never seen him move that fast," Henry watched, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "How much does he remember?"

"Bits and fra- _ah-!_ gments- Jack, _don't_ -" the man stumbled slightly and wheezed. "Get _down,_ you're _heavy_ -" the bow slipped in his fingers just enough for Jack to snatch it. He flinched when he was smacked lightly with it, and soon Jack had stolen the fiddle itself, too.

Contented, Jack returned to his docile position as if nothing had happened, only now holding his instrument. He situated it on his shoulder and rest his chin on it. Almost as an afterthought, he looked at the valve beside him.

Sammy caught his breath and picked up the valve before Jack could even consider taking it back. He pat him on the shoulder. "Thank you. Just please don't ever do that again. You are very heavy, and I mean no offence when I say that." He said it so sincerely it made Henry chuckle.

From the other side of the boiler room, Henry was smiling. He walked over. Sammy met his eyes and pointedly looked away when handing over the valve. "Let's go already. I'm sick of wading in ink here."

"There's no shame in caring for someone, Sammy." Henry hummed, still smiling. Getting no response, he went on. "But yeah, we should get going."

"Yes. We should."


	12. Ring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is only related to the prompt if you squint, but 'ring' is vague so c'mon
> 
> I think we've all wondered how the Projectionist ended up in maintenance. And I enjoy writing Norman a lot so yeah

"Will someone _please_ shut that thing up?! Anyone?! Any volunteers?!" Alice yelled into her empty haven. The Projectionist hadn't stopped that godforsaken _screaming_ ever since Henry left. It echoed up the empty elevator shaft and rang through her once quiet home. It drove her up the wall!

Somewhere unseen, the Ink Demon smiled.

Alice sighed loudly over her intercom. "NORMAN! _SHUT UP_!" She shrieked. Her voice echoed through level 14, it had to have. But projectors didn't have ears, and he kept making that awful noise. The moments between the bouts of insane shrieking weren't far enough apart for her liking. Henry really pissed him off by stealing those ink hearts for her, didn't he? She almost regret it. Almost.

Down in the inky abyss, the Projectionist was effectively a bull, charging down the halls and barreling through unfinished walls.

His light bounced across walls. Shadows danced in a dizzying blur. He only stopped his rampage when he came across where an ink heart should've been. At seeing it was empty, he'd let out a shrill cry, turn, and resume sprinting.

His frantic behavior was only becoming more erratic, his speaker cutting out as if he was about to break it with all his screaming. He swayed when he ran, running his shoulder or face into a wall on several occasions. Boots slick with ink skidded over the abyss and only narrowly avoided faceplanting.

It made Alice's ears _ring_. And, frankly, the Ink Demon didn't like the noise either. He couldn't focus on anything! It filled the air, filled the ink, filled his mind, and it pissed him off.

The Projectionist wheeled around a corner and blindly bolted out of his halls and into the open entrance. His chest heaved and his shoulders shook. Wires were jostled and he might've begun to overheat himself. Maybe he was trying to breathe- who knew?

The ink underfoot trembled. The Ink Demon had arrived.

Walls became saturated by black and dripped ink. A deep, strong heartbeat pulsed in the air, even in the Projectionist's head. It disrupted any thoughts he had, filling him with unease and fear of the unknown. He only had a second to sway on his feet, threatening to collapse, before he was yanked into the floor.

The inky abyss became blessedly quiet once more, much to Alice's relief.

The cold void practically put him in shock. His light was swallowed by the blackness. Effectively blind, he lashed out and thrashed his head to and fro, only for the ink to tighten around him. It encased him in a chilly cocoon. The warmth of spinning machinery and the heat of a straining bulb made the ink bubble and swirl around his head. It threatened to collapse down onto him and crush him, to tear him apart and scatter him into the well of voices. It started to seep into him, to force itself into his mind, threatening break him from the inside-

-and then he was spat out.

He fell onto his side in a new room. Ink dripped off of him in thick globs and retreated back to the ground. His already scattered thoughts became overrun by primal, stampeding feelings that couldn't be shaken. Feelings that demanded he get up already, that demanded he stop being vulnerable and pull himself together. His speaker crackled as he stood up, ink worming its way out of the little cracks in his machinery. His joints creaked when he righted himself. Ink splattered off his head when he shook like a wet dog. His lens cleared.

The heartbeat was gone. The walls there weren't a rotting black and didn't drip ink. The fear slipped from his mind along with the ink. His shining light provided new stimuli. New things to look at and forget. The memories of his familiar halls were already sinking to the back of his tired mind. The new was now. The curiosity and weariness towards the unfamiliar swelled and took up any space in his conscience that might've questioned what this happened.

So he gathered himself and began exploring. The room was small. Much smaller but more open than he was used to. The ink sloshing against his boots as he walked provided a cold, familiar sensation in his legs. He lapsed into rhythm and walked, hunched over the weight of his projector.

Rounding a corner, something caught his light. Lots of somethings. Piled atop a crate were ink hearts, glistening in the warm glow he provided.

He let out a sound not quite a scream, but it rang out shrilly nonetheless, bouncing back and ringing in his head. A reflection of a few feeling that was already quickly fading. The hearts were his. As he approached them, whatever new feeling had bubbled up was already sinking into nothing. His hearts. The hearts that belonged to him. That belonged to nobody else.

As if nothing had happened, he went on.


	13. Heated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tried to somewhat stick with the gloom of canon up until now, but boy are pre-ink scenarios fun, too! Which is a nice way of saying I could've done something better with this but I was already running with this idea too late to change it
> 
> Warning: Graphic description of a burn wound.

Norman Polk was usually a quiet man. He lurked around dark corners and kept to himself. He people watched and psychoanalyzed people, but he did that without speaking. Even when he did talk, it was in short, blunt sentences, or in rather dark jokes. He was decently well-mannered around most of his co-workers if he had to be, though.

So the band was surprised when he started yelling and cussing like a sailor. The cartoon being projected curled and rotted frame by frame until it stopped moving and burned up completely. There was a _bang_ from the booth, followed by the crack of a lightbulb bursting. Smoke began to flood out of the booth. Licks of orange and red blossomed from the wrecked projector.

"You okay, Polk?" Sammy called.

"Someone left a bottle of _very flammable_ ink sitting out here, and I done knocked it over!" His voice was tight and snippy. Nobody saw him, but soon his hurried footsteps came thudding down the stairs. His sleeves, which were rolled up, were charred. The skin on his forearms was peeling and pink, welts of blood mixing in with ash to streak a muddy red across his arms. His fingers, caked in the god knows what, were shaky and splayed out.

"Christ, Polk! Get to the infirmary!" One of the band met, a violinist, looked faint at the sight.

He looked over the rather horrified band, a tight smile that didn't meet his eyes stretched over his features. His eyes were wide and he was visibly shaking. He could only hold out his arms at an angle, unable to wipe away the blood that began to drip onto the floor. A dry laugh escaped him. "No, I think I'll live."

Nobody laughed. Sammy and several others looked like they were about to pass out, actually.

"Fine, fine, I'll go, since you look like y'all've seen a ghost. A little blood never hurt no-one." And with that, Norman shuffled off towards the infirmary.


	14. Arch

The studio's architecture was questionable at best, dangerous at worst. Everyone knew that, from the wandering searchers to Alice Angel herself. Short hallways led to lonely desks, while an unassuming door led to an entirely different wing. Doors would be fancied for no apparent reasons, and parts of the floor were weak...

The building itself was mostly underground. The top floors were mostly for show- a few desks animators had worked at, a couple of old projectors playing cartoons. Below ground was where the guts were. Bendy Land, or Bendy Hell depending who you asked, sat with tons and tons of rock and earth atop it. The Lost Harbor was a cavernous place, with towering buildings that might someday double as support beams for the roof if the ceiling became weak with age. 

It never did, of course- the studio was held together by ink and magic. Maybe it hadn't always been built like this. Maybe demon magic was why nothing made sense in the maze of Joey Drew Studios. Maybe Joey himself was just bad at architecture and kept expanding, building down and down deeper into bedrock just because he couldn't afford proper land to use. Nobody remembered and, frankly, very few souls cared to ask questions with impossible to reach answers.

Buddy knew the oddities of the studio's typical architecture better than most. He didn't see the big picture or any grand landmarks, but the little details were what caught his eye. Identical rooms, halls that led nowhere, pipes arching overhead in the same patterns- Buddy had seen it all.

He might've had a proper name once, when the studio was actually a studio that had staff instead of whatever the hell Patron was. He was just Buddy now. Or Boris. Buddy Boris. Explorer of the corners of the studio, a rat in the walls.

Being in the walls was...tiring, sometimes. He yearned to see the real studio. To wander through a room wider than a hall, that had meaning. The dice roll his lift gave him wasn't enough. Avoiding Bendy wasn't enough. Fleeing the Projectionist wasn't enough. Hiding from the Butcher Gang wasn't enough.

As much as he truly appreciated the Patron's company...he wasn't enough, either, after so long. There might be more like him out there. More Boris, maybe. Maybe he'd find Jack Fain or even Emma Lamont. Anyone that could talk to him properly or even acknowledge his existence.

Milla's tapes were giving him comfort, but they were incredibly hard to find. He held out hope she or someone else was out there.

He still drew. Faces with forgotten names would fill pages and pages. Names without faces swam through his dreams. Dot. Sammy. Joey. Allison. Thomas. He couldn't piece them together and it drove him mad.

The distant voice in his head wasn't enough helping his situation, either. He didn't count their shared body as company- not really. Neither of them spoke. The scared whimpering he beat into a corner was just that- whines and barks and _noises_. Anytime Bendy or the Projectionist or the Butcher Gang showed up, some part of him would wail and cower. It wasn't _him_ , mentally, but he'd feel the urge to fall to his knees and hide nonetheless.

Someone had to be out there. Someone _real_. Milla had to be out there- he had to make sure she was okay. He had to save her. To find the key and free her. Even the voiceless mind beside his own agreed. He was lonely. They were lonely.

And Buddy was sick of it. Sick of waiting and searching for her key. He paced his sanctuary, turning corners and entering rooms in a meaningless pattern, as if some new door would magically appear. With every minute that ticked by, the walls felt tighter, the air stiller.

He passed by the items he'd collected on his last run and his gaze settled on the wrench.

A wrench. Endless possibilities.

He picked it up and felt the weight in his hands. It felt good- grounding, even. It was dull and unpolished, with the imprint of ink stains never cleaned reflecting in the light.

It would work just fine.

Possessed by an impulsivity he'd never felt before, he stepped into the hallway. He strode towards the door Milla had to be behind.

The archway over the door seemed so grand. Like it was his calling, his destiny to break through. Dim light was cast upon it, and the arch practically glowed. He found it almost serene.

He knocked his fist against it, listening for any response even through he never got one, but his ink was already rushing in his ears and the decision was already made.

He raised the wrench and slammed it into the wood. It splintered and groaned. Dust filled the air, but he only ripped the wrench free and dug it in again.

Over and over, he ripped planks free. His eyes screwed shut on instinct to keep out the dust. Did he need to worry about his eyes anymore? He didn't know. All he was aware of was the movement of his rubberhose arms and shoulders, working to pull away more, to tear the wall down. The wrench clattered to the floor and now he was using his hands. Splinters tore through his dirty gloves and scratched up his hands, but he didn't stop.

His breath was becoming ragged. He opened his eyes to feel the sting of tears- when had he started crying? His heart was in his throat, now, as he started to truly grasp the realization he'd be finally meeting another living person who _talked_ and _felt_.

The mind against his own started to get nervous. This was _new_. This was something ~~scary~~ _exciting._

He ignored the feeling. It conflicted his giddy glee at getting ready to meet Milla, after so long. He wiped away his inky tears and looked up at the arch, at the ruined doorframe. His vision blurred again and he eagerly pulled off another strip of wood. A smile- a true, genuine smile crossed his face for the first time in...a long time. He practically threw himself into the room,

and into darkness.

The floor gave way under him, cracking as if it has been waiting just for him to step upon it to give out. His eyes widened and he tried to scream, his arms shooting out but missing the floor that quickly flew out of sight as he tumbled into the unknown.

He spun around until he couldn't tell which way was up. His mind raced, while his 'roommate' was _screaming_ and drowning out any attempts to calm down.

Pain shot through his back- so _that_ was which way down was. He saw stars for a moment, as pain froze him to the spot, arms and legs sticking up like a dead roach.

Someone laughed softly. A tall shadow looked over him. She was backlit by her brilliant halo. The dust in the air glistened in the light. It looked like she had wings, or maybe his head was still spinning- he was seeing double, triple, and the edges of his vision grew fuzzy.

The wolf within him was dazed but excited. He wanted to hop up and bouncy and bark and properly meet her, no questions asked. Buddy had assumed she'd be human. However, now, he was staring at an _angel._ Archangel? Seraphim? Her form blurred and she was almost painful to look at. Whatever Milla was, she was _ethereal_.

"Oh, Boris! I wasn't expecting you so soon!" You're in a rush to meet me, weren't you?" Her voice...

It terrified him.

It was Milla's, but _wrong_. Even without tape distortion, she shouldn't sound so cool, her voice so dark and malicious. Her accent was gone. Buddy's heart leapt into his throat when the angel reacted out to grab him. Her light washed over her face. A mangled, toothy mouth smiled at him. The dark eye he saw had nothing behind it, out glittering and reflecting like the eye of an animal.

Buddy scrambled to his feet. He turned, one hand automatically reaching up to flick on his light to see. The angel laughed as he found his footing and tripped over himself trying to get away. It was sharp and mean and echoed off cramped halls he was all too used to, built lined with pointless archways and dead ends.

He ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was pretty fun to write! Arch can only refer to a tiny handful of things so I just sort of dove in with a vague concept in mind that solidified as I wrote more. Probably explains why this is a little all over the place. I've never really put proper thought into Buddy Boris's character before, so this was fun practice to flesh him out.


	15. Poisoning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Vomiting and description of a character death.

"Ah, hello, Jack." Grant looked like death itself. His skin was ashy and sunken. The tired smile he gave Jack didn't reach his tired eyes, partially hidden by stringy, ink-clotted hair. In his hand, every bone, tendon, and knuckle standing out against his papery skin, he held a cup of coffee. It shook as he brought it to his lips again.

Jack, like any sensible human, was nearly convinced he was looking at a ghost. That someone in the studio had finally dropped dead and was haunting the break room. "Grant... Grant Cohen, right?"

"The one and only, from accounting." He moved to refill his already empty mug.

"Are...you okay? At all? No offence, but you look like a dead man walking."

He drew in a shaking, weirdly wet breath. "...no."

"Do you want to chat about it?"

"No. Please d-don't tell mister Drew." Grant looked aghast at the mere thought. He set the cup down and let out an uneven breath.

Jack shook his head. "You need to rest. You look like you're about to collapse. How bout-"

"N-no! No, I'm fine, I just... Need more coffee. And I'll live." As if to prove his point, he took a swig and nearly choked. The drink was a thick, tar black. "I...I need to go, actually. W-work to do. Sorry. I'm sorry."

"No worries! We've all got deadlines. Just don't drop dead, alright?" He pat Grant on the shoulder and offered a smile.

He flinched from the contact as if he'd been slapped, but he nodded anyways. "R-right, right." He turned around, clutching the drink like an anchor, and hurried away. 

"...what a weird guy." Jack shrugged to himself and poured himself a cup of coffee. Maybe not as much as he'd planned to have- after seeing what it did to _that_ poor soul, he didn't trust it so much anymore. He didn't recall it always being so black and tasting so...weird.

Nonetheless, he had work to do and lyrics to write, so he wasn't going to abandon it completely. Coffee in hand, he left the break room and headed back to the sewers.

Something nagged at the back of his mind. Something wasn't quite right, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. It became a painfully strong feeling as he walked. His hat sat snugly atop his head, and he couldn't think of any other reason he felt uneasy.

Then he realized how quiet the studio was.

The band should've been in full swing. Co-workers should've been chatting, walking by. More people should've been around than just he and Grant. There should've been more background noise than the creak of floorboards underfoot.

He walked through the band hall and looked around. Sammy was flicking through sheet music against his stand. A few sparse players were cleaning or tuning instruments. Nobody was outright playing a song. They all looked like Grant, somewhat- pale skin, bags under their eyes, and unwashed hair.

"Hey, Sammy...uh." a creeping dread made its way up his throat.

"Oh, hey, Jack. Did'ja get those lyrics done? We need those-"

"By tonight, yeah, yeah, I know. No need to remind me." He chuckled. "Uh...where is everyone?"

Sammy shrugged. "Don't know, don't really care. They'll lose their jobs if they keep not showing up."

"So...what about the violinist? Oh, I feel bad for forgetting her name... Or Johnny, the organ player? He doesn't normally miss days. I don't think I've seen him in a while..."

"Oh, they've been gone a while. If I'm missing this many people for much longer..." Another shrug.

"Allison? Doesn't she have a lot of lines to catch up on, after Susie, uh- what happened to miss Campbell, anyways...?"

"I don't know where Allison is. I think Joey wanted her for something. Susie was let go and replaced by her, remember?"

"Uh, right, right, I forgot. Then...what about Norman?"

"...workplace accident."

"Jeez, Sammy! You're not- not _worried_ about this at all? This place is a ghost town! You can't really do your job with half your dang people gone!"

"I can still write songs for when they get back. Now, don't _you_ have work to do? Lyrics to write? Shoo."

"Alright, fine, fine!" He was shooed away towards his workplace. The sewers wouldn't be much quieter than the rest of the studio, he thought. Lately his workplace was cursed with the ambience of dripping ink from leaky piped, only making it seem more like the rest of the studio.

He took another sip of his coffee. He didn't quite feel tired. Mentally, yes, but not physically. It was habit, and he found himself wanting to down the rest of it. What the hell had Joey been putting in the coffee lately to make it so addicting? He hadn't been out of his office in ages...maybe he'd changed it up. Or maybe Grant, Shawn, or even Sammy was tampering with it. He found Sammy drinking a lot of it lately.

He'll ask around later.

With that concerning thought seeded in his head, he made his way down into the sewers. He'd gotten rather lax about walking through it. It was more ink than sewage at this point and he'd long since stopped caring about messing up his pants and shoes.

A dizzying migraine began to come on just as he reached his office. "I really gotta stop drinking that coffee..." Whatever was in it was especially strong that day.

He slumped against his desk and felt something rise in his throat. It was warm and bubbled when he exhaled. Choking, he doubled over and threw it up.

It was thick and black. It had the same color and thickness as the ink flowing through the pipes, except perhaps watered down by spit and acid.

Had he been drinking ink?

The thought barely crossed his mind before his legs gave out. He landed on his hands and knees, still gagging as the ink burned his tongue. His hands were pale and boney- when had he become so malnourished and ill?

His eyes stung with hot tears as he gasped for breath. He only succeeded in breathing in the ink and choking it back up. His head pounded even as he closed his eyes tight and tangled his fingers into his hair, tugging and praying for it to stop.

Still, he coughed and coughed, his desperate attempts at breathing coming out in shorter and shorter pants. The ink clotted in his throat until the only sound he was left wheezing and rasping out nothing.

Dark tears stuck to his lashes, streaking down his face and into his mouth. The inky taste only resulting in him retching again. A mouthful of ink was spat out, granting him a blessed few seconds of air.

He tried to scream. Ink was getting into his eyes, his nose, everything- how did it even get there? Had a pipe burst nearby?

His thoughts slipped away as his arms gave out. He smell onto his side, gasping. Ink was sticking to his hair, matting against his face and nose. It was getting into his lungs as he breathed in without the air to breathe out.

In the empty lull of the sewers, Jack took his final breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sammy going to check on Jack after realizing he was poisoning everyone who drank the studio coffee only seeing him ink-ified: 👁️👄👁️


	16. Vision

_It crashed through his music room. Disturbed searchers crashed onto it and pawed at it. They groaned as an axe was dug into their heads._

_With careful, experienced precision, it slaughtered them all right before him. It would smear its axe with ink and then continue, as if it were a inconvenience. It was unfazed._

It all disturbed him. He had to stop it.

_It charged_ _through the town, breathing hard as it ran. Something- someone swung at it, and it dodged smoothly. It swung at the assailant and sent them splattering into the well._

_With a grunt, it turned around. It smiled a ghastly white smile at the people around it. Pale white faced off against warm gold, contrasted by the black of the ink. It pulled at them, warping and tugging at their bodies. Still, they attacked._

_The next victim lunged at the intruder. They were hit in the side with a solid, wet thump. What resembled ribs cracked and caved into their chest. They wheezed and scratched at it. With another blow, they fell back._

_It stood over them and raised its weapon over its blurry, ethereal form. It swung down_ , _and when they still moved, it hit them once more. They grew still and the hungry ink swallowed their mangled body whole._

_The people swarmed the intruder. They yelled and clawed and punched and kicked. Their eyes glowed a fiery yellow that danced across the blur of their bodies._

_Still, though, it slaughtered them. It hit and kicked. Its smile never wavered, staying tight and pearly. There was a sick joy to it, as it snuffed out their lives._

_It sickened him._

He wouldn't let it kill the rest of them. He was such a fool, to have believed its words. To have found comfort in that grin. His mind swan through the nightmarish visions. Was he at the harbor, or was he still running through the space between walls, looking for a place he wasn't sure even existed?

_It ran at him. It knew he was coming, by the huff and his it was already raising its weapon. It knew._

It couldn't. He would surprise it. There was no way it could know. The demon left him for dead. It probably thought he was hiding of festering in the well.

Sammy clutched his axe tighter. He had hope, and that was what mattered. He was strong. The strangers, souls he's never even met- they'd all be slaughtered by the grinning demon.

He'd wipe that horrible smile right of its face.


	17. Distractions

"Tom? I think that's unnecessary."

He lowered his fist. Still, he glared down the stairs at the little obstacles. The Butcher Gang scuttled along the floor aimlessly. Below, the Striker bumped into the Fisher, and they started squabbling at each other.

He and Allison shared a look of mild discomfort. There was something unsettling about them. Searchers were short-tempered, but they could be reasoned with. Lost ones were well put together and could provide amicable conversation. Even the one or two other Boris they've stumbled across the past few years were friendly. All of the ink creatures were once people. They all had souls and identities- except the Butcher Gang clones.

Maybe they were classified as animals- they weren't human, not totally. They didn't have a complete soul and the ink spat them up at random without keeping the pieces together. They were incomplete, lacking a whole light behind their eyes. However they were made, they were incomplete, somehow. Every single one was a little off in their own unique way.

Allison still felt bad about sometimes killing them. She kept an eye on Tom as she picked up an empty soup can. Tossing it from hand to hand, she looked back up at him. "Grab a can. They get distracted easily."

He chuffed and picked up a can from a pile sitting on a crate. He crushed it in his mechanical hand, considering it as he leaned over the balcony. With unnecessary force, he hurried it at the Piper, almost knocking it over.

"Oh, that's not what I meant and you know it!" Allison elbowed him and threw her can. It clattered off of the wall. The trio garbled out nonsense and stumbled over each other to look at the can. Even Piper was trying to get up to get a better look.

"Let's go." She quickly made her way down the stairs. Tom was close behind, glaring at the gang as they crossed the room.

They made it across safely. He pulled down the lever to turn on power, while she stayed back and kept watch.

There was a short squawk, followed by a squeak and a thump. Tom turned around to see the Striker had wandered in, and Allison was holding the mouth atop its head shut. Both parties looked wildly uncomfortable with the situation.

Tom ran over and grabbed its arms, giving Allison a look. "What?! We shouldn't kill it! Don't scream, please!" She hissed out through grit teeth. It wriggled in their grip, kicking and letting out short gurgles through a struggling mouth.

It whimpered. "Is...is it scared?" At the sound of her voice, the Striker sniffled and let out a choked sound that sounded a bit too much like a sob. "Oh! Oh, you poor thing...!"

Even Tom looked put off by the noise. He squinted at it, kneeling down. The Striker tried swinging at him, only for its fist to get caught in his iron grip. "...!"

"What should we do with it? It can't exactly hurt us like this..."

Tom shrugged. He stood up with a grunt and motioned for her to let it go. She did, and it fell over face first. "...not exactly very grateful, is it?" It really wasn't.

 _Clink. Clink. Clink._ "Bah?" The Piper stuck its head around the corner. Its wrench tapped against the wood as it limped along. 

"Oh." Allison unsheathed her sword. Tom lifted the Striker up like a football. It squabbled and wiggled.

She backed up as the Piper lurched forwards. Behind her, Tom was trying to keep the Striker from squirming free without accidentally hurting it.

It shouted an incoherent garbled mess of noise. The Piper jabbered something back at it. She and Tom exchanged looks, and she lowered her sword. He set it down. Still making its noises, it stumbled to its feet and ran over to the Piper. They snapped at each other for a brief moment before the Piper hissed at them. With that, they stumbled off.

"...let's just...go." Tom nodded, and they were quick to leave. She kept her voice in a whisper as they rushed past the gang, who glared at them. "Sorry, sorry, we're going..."

As they made their way up the creaky stairs, Tom yelped. She turned to see a crushed soup can clattering down the steps and Tom rubbing the back of his head. At the base of the stairs, the Striker was cackling.

He grumbled at it, and she set a hand on his back. "Don't let them get to you, they're made to be bullies. Now, why did we need to flip that switch in the first place? We got a bit sidetracked..." He sighed but nodded, shooting a withering glare at the little distractions before she dragged him back up the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Tom is definitely...something. On one hand, we've got the downright angry Tom from the books, which is a little...yikes, all things considered. On the other we've got the og distrustful Tom from the game itself. I want these two to be happy but curse canon for shooting me in the knees and scarring how I interpret him


	18. Teeth

Henry sprinted through the halls, his shoes skidding over ink. He must've gotten turned around somehow. The halls weren't familiar and the turns made no sense.

The walls rotted black with ink. It rained onto his hair and soaked into his already ruined sweater. It stained his cracked glasses and got into his mouth. His breaths came in short, quick bursts, as he tried to outrun the demon.

A miracle station would be welcome, but he didn't know where he was, so he ran, even as the distance between he and Bendy closed.

The ground became flooded with ink. He slipped and his hands flew out automatically to catch himself, but crumpled under him. He fell hard and the breath he had left was knocked right out of his lungs.

A hand hooked into the collar of his shirt. He tried to catch his breath but only succeeded in choking on his tongue. He was yanked up, only for his shirt to tear and his tired body met the floor again. Pain shot through his shoulders and elbows even as he tried to pull himself up. "Ugh..."

A hand wrapped around his shoulder, a grip stronger than any human's pressing into aching flesh. His arm felt like it was going to pop out of its socket as he was lifted up.

Facing Bendy now, he couldn't help but stare. The demon grinned at him, heaving hot, inky breath into his face. It made him gag and realize he had ink in his mouth and stuck to his lashes. He blinked it away, squinting at the thing about to kill him. When was the last time he'd been caught? Had he always been so violent?

Much to his horror, the ink demon opened his mouth. That was new.

It was a horrible sight. Bendy wasn't made to open his mouth like that, but the demon's grin lifted his jaw unhinged like a snake's, exposing previously unseen predatory teeth. He let out a wheezing sigh as he stretched his jaw open, bones and tendons popping.

The smell of dusty ink made Henry's head spin with nausea. Despite how ink was starting to obscure his sight, his eyes widened at what held him and he started struggling. He reached up with his good arm and grabbed the arm holding him up. He kicked out to no avail. "L-let me go-!" His voice came out in a choked wheeze. He began to cough from the fumes he was inhaling and tasting.

Bendy's face only drew closer to his own. His teeth were an off-white, roots stained black. Lips he didn't realize Bendy had pulled back to expose blackened gums. The bottom, previously hidden, maw consisted of rows of protruding, pointed teeth. They stuck out at off angles, uneven and varying from needle thin to as thick as his finger. Strings of black stuck between his lips and teeth. Ink dripped over his teeth and into his mouth, where it pooled and dribbled out the sides.

Henry could only stare into the void within his mouth, locking up. Struggling wasn't helping and ink was getting all over his face, so he just shut his eyes tight and prayed it would be over quick.

He still screamed. It lasted much, much longer than he'd hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmm don't like mouth horror! It's probably what unsettles me most: unnatural teeth, hyperdontia, teeth where teeth shouldn't be, mouth wrongness in general, all that. Writing this was immersion at its finest


	19. Entertainment

They couldn't agree about how much time had passed.

Lacie felt like it had been years. Bertrum thought it had been months. She really tried to stay hopeful that things would change, but the passing time was weighing on her, too. She could move. She had the entirety of Bendy Hell to her disposal. Bertrum was stuck in his own ride, with nothing to do but exist. Nothing happened for him outside of Lacie's visits.

It sucked. It really, really sucked.

They couldn't even talk! Bertrum could wheeze out a syllable or two, but he was a frozen in time head. Lacie could only whistle, thanks to being built just to make noises cartoon Bendy would make. A six foot tall grinning animatronic whistling. Emersion at its finest.

It was beyond boring. At some point the games became repetitive. She'd done everything, explored every nook and cranny. Nothing was new. Bertrum made her promise not to leave, and she's keep it. They would stay in Bendy Hell until help arrived or something changed.

It still left her with nothing to do. She paced through the room in long, even strides. Walking was easy as long as she didn't think about how many joints the robot had, or how its foot landed flat on the ground instead of heel first. She focused on everything other than her body. The thrum of unseen pipes, the whirring of electricity flowing through wires, the distant sobbing-

...wait.

She halted in her tracks and listened. Someone was crying in the distance. Far away sobs echoed down from a nearby hall.

A thin whistle escaped her, hissing like compressed air being released. She followed the sound and came across a part of the wall left unfinished. It was held together by chicken wire and drywall. She could see down into another room. Sat there was...was that a person? Drenched in ink, curled up with their head in their knees?

She lowered herself and nearly fell over trying to crawl down onto the little room. She whistled again. _Come on_ , she thought, _please be a person. Please just be hit by a burst pipe or something. Don't be a monster._

Where thoughts of monsters came from, she didn't know. The figure looked up, shining gold eyes meeting her gaze. They screamed.

Sobs wracked their body as they threw themself back, arms flying out to catch themself. They looked up at Lacie with unbridled terror.

No, she tried to say, I'm not going to hurt you. But she knew she looked like a demon. A hellish nightmare. She couldn't blame them for being scared.

But she wasn't going to let a new person go that easily.

The animatronic's fingers barely fit through the holes in the gate between them. She pulled it off and reached out. She gave them another chance to realize she wasn't going to hurt them.

They began to sob again, curling up in a tight ball. She pulled the wire apart and stepped into the room. It was cramped and the door was barred shut. The only way they could've gotten in was the busted open vent. Standing over them, she began to realize how tall she was now. They seemed above average, but the animatronic was well over six feet.

Guilt gnawed at her, even as she grabbed their hand and pulled them up. She kept whistling and managed out a tune. People liked music, right? Maybe they'd realize she meant no harm?

Their shoulders shook with their sobs. They looked up at her. "Wh...what..." They began to stand, leaning away from her but not trying to get their hand back. "Are.... What are you?"

She motioned back where she'd come from. She wondered how many people knew about Bendy Land before. Not many, she imagined. This person would probably get the picture after seeing it.

After a second of staring at her, they got the picture and shuffled up to the gap. They stood on her hand. Like in the movies, she mused as she boosted them up. They were boney and drippy, leaving ink on the palm of the robot's hand where they'd stepped.

Once they were through, she followed. They kept their distance. The ground dented under her hold as she hefted herself back up. "Wh-what is this place?"

Lacie wished she could answer properly. Air somewhere within her compressed and she whistled again.

"Oh, you can't talk..." They seemed disappointed. She pat them on the shoulder and nearly knocked them over. She pulled her hand back quickly, and to her horror they seemed to be made of ink through and through. How could they talk if they were made of ink? Did the drooping tentacles of ink making up their lower face even count as a mouth?

Pushing her questions aside for later, she led them into the Bendy Hell. They looked around, scooting behind her. "Bendy...Hell?" She'd somehow painted the sign out of boredom. Not very appealing to visitors, she supposed. Oops.

"Oh! Is this an amusement park? All the way down here?" They began to get excited. They bolted over to the minigames. It was odd, seeing someone excited over them when she herself had gotten so bored of it all.

"Does that mean you were meant to entertain kids?" They looked back at her, picking up the toy gun and examining it. "...you don't look very entertaining. Y-you're quite scary, actually. N-no offence, of course!"

Lacie looked down at her hands. The reminder of how unsightly she was dampened her excitement at meeting this new person.

"...sorry."

She shook her head. They were right and there was nothing to be sorry about. They set the toy gun down as she walked past them, beckoning for them to follow. They still had someone to meet. Hopefully Bertrum wouldn't freak out over an ink person. He hadn't fared well when she'd told him about the creepy Butcher Gang clone bastards down in Research and Design she'd killed.

As they walked, the newcomer began to ease up. Their shoulders relaxed and they seemed more confident walking with her. "Would you mind if I played a few of the games? There isn't a lot of fun down here, so this is rather welcome!"

Someone talking was new. Even if it was a one-sided conversation, hearing a full sentence was...nice. Hearing someone sound so excited made her smile on the inside.

She entered Bertrum's room. The ride was still and the lights were off. She approached one of the carts and thunked a finger against it.

It only took a few seconds for the lights to turn on. She stepped back to give him room and looked back for the stranger. At seeing they weren't there, she wheeled back around. They were getting way, way too close to the carts. "Oh, this is cool...!"

Oh no.

The ride's arms lifted and the carts straightened. They watched in awe before climbing into one.

_Oh no._

She let out a strained, thin noise, waving her arms. _Get off! You idiot, get off!_ She found herself backing up as the arms rose. Her inky friend was elated, however. "This is great! How did you get this to work?!"

Windows on the ride swung open. Bertrum looked at her, saw her freaking out and waving her arms, and noticed the unwanted passenger. His foggy eyes met theirs. They stared at him for a second. It was so deathly quiet she could hear them breathe in to scream.

The ride kicked into high gear and started moving. Fast. Its arms raised high and it spun. With every second it sped up more and more, jerking up and down to shake off the passenger. They shrieked and clutched the safety bar as if their life depended on it, and it probably did.

The last thing Lacie wanted was them getting hurt. Bertrum most definitely wasn't paying attention to her, and the ink person's screaming was drowning out her frantic whistles. Angry hot steam shot out from gaps in the ride, whistling alongside her.

Panicking, she stepped into the path of the cart. She was strong. She could stop it, right? She raised her arms and the cart slammed into her at full force. Metal hands gripped it tight and her heels dug into the wood, splintering it.

But the carts spun, uprooting her, and she was dragged up into the air. Letting out a sound equivalent of a scream, she clung to the ride. The animatronic was not built for gripping things, however, and smooth, thick fingers slipped over the surface. 

It all came to a screeching halt. Lacie fell hard onto her back, reeling. If she could, she would be thrown up. Her head turned to see Bertrum's face looking down at her, eyebrows creased with concern. She found it within herself to flip him off.

"That...was...amazing!" The ink person seemed fine. Breathing hard, shaking, and still clutching the safety bar, but unscathed. They stumbled out and nearly faceplanted, but found their footing and staggered to her side. "A-are you alright?"

She flipped them off, too.

Bertrum was still staring at them. His lips parted and a stale word left them. " _Who_...?"

Lacie sat up, joints creaking, and gripped a cart for support. She struggled back to her feet and motioned between them. _Bertrum, meet ink person. Ink person, meet Bertrum._

"Hello! I...don't know my name. Can I do that again? That was fun!" They bounced on their heels, hands balled into fists against their chest.

She and Bertrum shared a look. She shrugged and trudged well away from the ride. No way was she going to risk getting smacked around again. It wasn't her choice whether or not Bertrum threw them around more.

Leaning against a pillar and crossing her arms, she watched the arms spin slowly. The carts scooted closer. They wasted no time in getting in. The safety bar clicked down. It didn't do much in providing any actual safety to the skeletal person, but they gripped it firmly nonetheless.

The ride started up and began to spin. The lights around it flickered on and off in a rhythmic wave. Lacie had ridden it plenty of times- how could she not?- but seeing it from the outside was another experience entirely. Watching the ride work like how it was built to, watching it make someone laugh was...a surreal sight.

Bertrum's head was something she was so used to seeing that it barely messed with the emersion. For a few seconds at least, they were at an amusement park. She found herself smiling on the inside.


	20. Paralyzed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing the Projectionist is fun, and so is animatronic Lacie. I think I just like writing mute, mechanical characters that are left with their own thoughts in awful situations.

She was awake.

When had she woken up?

Everything was fuzzy. Pins and needles ran over her back. Was she laying down, or leaning against the wall? Was she looking at the ceiling or a wall? It was all the same, made of old wood with ink stains.

She tried to focus and clear her sight. She couldn't move her eyes, for she had no eyes to move. Just paint and dark magic. Distress began to set in. The wood beneath her felt dry and stale. The texture was familiar. Her old workbench? She had...fallen asleep on it. Yes, she must've laid down and shut off.

She was stuck in an animatronic. For how long had she wandered Bendy Hell? Days or months? How long had she been asleep for? Time didn't seem to move in such an unchanging environment.

The pins and needles feeling faded. The wood under her left shoulder felt different, somehow. It was sticky and cold. Oil? No, no, not oil. Ink. The animatronic ran on ink. She knew this, damnit- she was forced to help design it. Someone...her boss? No, her boss's boss- he had created the strangest ink. But it worked in place of oil and almost did the work itself...

Where was she again?

Attempting to ground herself, she tried moving. Nothing happened. Her body remained cold- colder than it had ever been before. A feeling of emptiness, all-consuming and endless, began to well up inside her. She felt wires and gears within her, pulleys and pistons stiff and unmoving, but at the same time she felt _hollow_. She tried to whistle, but the mechanism within built to do so remained still.

Without stimuli, without the feeling of walking or seeing or making noise, Lacie became painfully aware of the wrongness of her being. Her mind shoved into a robot and left to scream with no vocal chords to do it with. She tried to move a hand not her own. She could barely feel it. Where was the other hand?

It was gone. The ink must've leaked out when it was removed. The urge to move became wild and manic now. Anything. She couldn't tilt her head or twitch her fingers, but she at least felt them. The left arm of her body was gone. It was _gone_. Severed. Stolen? Broken off?

What happened?

She tried to move her legs. It dawned on her that everything below the mechanical demon's equivalent of a spine was...gone. Even of she could move, there was nothing _to_ move.

There was nothing she could do but merely exist. She could only think and feel and ponder what she'd done to deserve this. She thought she was a good person. She hadn't been evil, right? If anyone deserved this unmoving prison, it would be Joey, for stealing her and Bertrum's work. Being cold and independent didn't warrant this hellish punishment... Did it?

She could only stare. Her vision hazed out of focus after some time and she made no effort to refocus.

Her thoughts came to a slow halt one by one. She remembered nothing, and nothing was happening right then. Nothing was helping, least of all raising questions.

What was the point of asking questions in such a place? A place where her mind was forced into a robot and Bertrum was shoved into his own ride was not a place that abided laws of reality.

There was no point in asking questions, or trying to move. She was so tired of trying to hold herself together mentally, if not for her own well being than for Bertrum's sake. She hoped someone new would come by and keep him company. Fixing things was impossible, she was sure of it. With the state she was in, unable to call for help, or move, or just _scream_ , she was simply left with her own quiet, dark thoughts.

It was impossible to tell the passage of time. She could've been there for hours or days, and it all felt the same. There came a point she stopped thinking about time at all, some unimportant months or years later.

Nothing to do but think. After a while, she began to run out of things to think about. There could only be so much fantasizing and remembering until it began to make her ache. Dreams and sleep became painful, so she stopped. She had no need for rest or false hope of change, anyways.

Thoughts were strung further and further apart, as dust settled upon her both inside and out.

They became quieter and smaller, less questions and more idly firings of her thoughts to remind herself she was alive.

Even then, it began to happen less and less frequently.

Stretches of meaningless time between reminders of her sentience grew wider and wider.

Soon, she just...existed.


	21. Money

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How convenient! I wanted to work on my take on Grant since hoo boy he's had a rough time. Both as an ink creature and a human. I didn't have the foresight to plan out my Joey, though, so he's a weird unfinished amalgamation of every Joey I've seen. They're both messes in their own rights.
> 
> That out if the way, this chapter contains description of a panic attack and murder, so tread lightly.

"Grant? Could I speak to you for a moment?"

 _Absolutely not_ , Grant thought, but got up to let Joey in anyways. His heart was already in his throat. Thin hands shaking from god only knows how much caffeine and sleep deprivation, he opened the door.

Joey flashed his signature grin at him. "I'm just checking in on your work! How are our finances going?"

Already he was coming up with a mission excuses. He needed more time, he had to double-check the numbers, anything that could get Joey out. Frankly, the man terrified him. The way his grin stretched too wide and met his wide, bright eyes. It wasn't a fake smile, or at least he believed it wasn't fake, and that scared him. That meant Joey legitimately believed in him and expected good results.

The tumble of thoughts and all the worst possible outcomes snowballed into a lie. "I-it's going well! I just need more time to finish up, and- and I don't want to get behind, you- y'know? So-" he gripped the doorknob tighter than necessary and began to close it.

Joey stuck his foot between the door and frame and stepped passed him. He whistled, looking around at his workspace. It was a mess of papers crammed with calculations scribbled out in harsh, dark lines that tore through the paper in places. The trashcan was overflowing with tightly crumbled paper balls. An ink well had fallen off his desk and never been cleaned up, leaving a dark, glistening stain on the floor and glass swept into a corner. His coffee mug was chipped after one too many drops out of his trembling hands.

Even his desk was a wreck. Messy calculations were smushed wherever they could be fit. Joey's grin turned to an unwavering smile as he shifted through the papers, eventually finding an unfinished report.

Grant had done what he could. He really, truly did. He cut corners and double- and triple-checked everything he wrote down. He checked yesterday's, last week's, last month's financial reports for any anomalies. He tried so hard, but couldn't fix the missing $48,128. He hated that number, seared into his brain with spite and hate.

$48,128. Just...gone.

Joey scanned the report outline, margins filled with questions and cynical remarks never intended to see the light of day, and Grant looked away. He instead stared at the posters he'd ripped down. Work hard, work _happy_? It personally _mocked_ him _._ He wasn't going to look up- he refused to look. Not the papers scattered about, not the posters, not even mister Drew himself. He mentally prepared himself to be yelled at, berated, or fired on the spot. 

"Could you explain to me what this is?"

His thoughts to tumbled to a halt. "...what?" He wasn't mad? He didn't sound mad. Concerned, slightly confused, but not angry.

"The missing money. Elaborate."

"Oh, well-" he started to fiddle with his hands, gripping them and running a finger along boney knuckles. It only reminded him how thin and malnourished he was, but he couldn't stop fidgeting. "I'm sorry. I must've missed something. I'll- I'll go check it all over. I don't know where it went. I'm sorry." His mouth was dry. When was the last time he'd had water?

"I didn't tell you? Why, it's something new I've been thinking about- a new _dream_! It-" anything after that effectively turned to white noise. Grant found himself stupefied.

"I told you we can't afford more _dreams_ , mister Drew-" he hissed out, sharper than he needed to. He felt like a fuming teapot five seconds away from exploding. "I told you."

"Oh, come on, just hear me out! You're so pessimistic, Grant! With-"

"With enough dreaming, anything can become a reality," he finished, sincerely wishing Joey got it through his thick skull. His voice began to raise. "But things like taxes and paychecks don't follow that. I'm sorry. We- we _literally_ can't afford to pay our staff."

"Hear me out, Grant. I'm sure we can fix thi-"

"N-no! You don't tell me where the money goes!" He should've stopped talking. He should've shut up right then and there, stuttered out an apology, and got back to wondering how he'd get the paychecks out.

But he didn't stop. And Joey was all ears.

"I've had to start keeping track what corners can be cut! Potential results from cutting those corners, like...like the plumbing breaking and fire hazards! Poverty charges interest, Drew! I don't know why Gent is here and what they're doing! They don't-! They don't tell me anything- they don't work with me! You need to tell me these things so I can do my job and give you advice! You don't _listen_ to me! I'm just- I'm sorry, I'm just one man! I can't do the impossible!"

By the end, he was breathing hard, pulling on his tie until it had come undone and he was winding it between his hands. He twisted it, bitten down nails digging into worn fabric until he thought it might tear. Joey's smile had faded, and Grant's heart dropped. "I'm... I'm sorry for yelling. Please don't fire me, I- I just give me more time. I'll find a way to fix it, I-"

"You can fix this, Grant, if you tried harder. You weren't always this...scatterbrained. I hired you because you were a capable man, and I believe you still are. Don't let me down." His voice was soft, like a disappointed father chiding a child.

He almost caved and agreed. He was at his wit's end with _everything_. If Joey had pushed a little further, something different might've happened. The irony.

"...I quit."

"Pardon?" The corner of Joey's lips tugged up. It didn't meet his eyes. "You can't quit! What about a two weeks' notice?"

"People have walked out before and you didn't care as long as they weren't important." Grant swallowed hard before going on. He had to do this. Even as his heart crept into his throat and he felt physically ill for talking back, he went on. "You threw a fit when Henry left-"

"Don't you _dare_ bring him up!" Joey yelled, taking a step towards him. Grant was a tad taller than him, but at that moment he felt very, very small. He backed away. "Don't you dare compare yourself to him!"

"...bye, mister-... Joey. Goodbye, Joey." His voice trembled as he sidestepped the man. He made way to the door, reaching out for the knob. He was going to escape that place, finally. He'd be dirt poor, but as long as he never had to see Joey's stupid smiling face again-

"You can't quit on me!" Joey sounded furious. A hand grabbed the back of his collar and pulled him back, another hand settling on his shoulder.

"D-don't touch me!" His stomach lurched as Joey yanked him back. "I-I'm leaving and there's nothing you can do to-" he shoved Joey back, only for breath to catch in his throat.

Joey looked _nuts_. He was still grinning, but it was tight and sharp and it reached his eyes _wrong_. His pupils were pricks of black in an ocean, glinting like an animal's. He hadn't noticed the bags under his eyes before, thin but definitely there. Thin strands of hair, streaked with thin lines of grey, fell in front of his face. He squeezed Grant's shoulders so tight it hurt.

"We can talk this out, Grant! You're being irrational!"

"Let me go!" He shoved Joey back. He fell like a house of cards and gasped, his wild eyes widening. "I'm sorry-" he reached for the door, forcing himself to look away. God, he was pathetic, kicking an old man down like that-

A hand clasped around his ankle and brought him down. His head collided with the hard wood of the door and for a moment he might've blacked out. One second he hit the door, the next Joey was on him.

"I can't let you leave! You have to understand!" He hovered inches above Grant's face. "I have a dream, and if you're not going to help me- help _us_ reach it..."

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He couldn't breathe for a few seconds, only lay there and stare at his batshit insane boss.

"Are you with me, Grant?!"

An almost imperceptible shake of the head. He wanted to go home. He wanted to get out. Air rushed into his lungs, but he couldn't get enough of it. He began to breathe hard, dizzy from- it couldn't be from lack of oxygen, he-

Joey's hand wrapped around his neck.

_He wouldn't kill him, would he?_

Tears burned at the corners of his eyes. Joey's full weight was on his torso now, digging a knee into his gut, his hand squeezing around his neck. His horrible, cold eyes looked over him with scalding disappointment.

He was so, so cold. Shame built up in his beating heart, deafening him. His arms trembled and refused to cooperate with that his mind screamed.

He couldn't breathe. He could barely _see_ , tears making everything warped and blurry. He was vaguely aware he was moving, thrashing against him. Stinging acid and bile rose up his throat, but the iron grip around his esophagus refused to let him throw up. The room spun and vertigo only made his nausea worse.

Was Joey speaking? He couldn't hear him, over the rushing of his own mind and the blood in his head. Everything seemed so dark around the edges, so fuzzy and cold.

Everything was cold.

He began to slip. Was he being moved? Everything felt like water. He was being let go, the weight leaving his chest. He didn't have it in himself to throw up, and choked in his eager gasps for air.

His breaths came in short, shallow wheezed. Blinking tears away, he looked up to see Joey limping out of the room. His boss looked back at him with a scornful glare. "Goodbye, Grant."

And the door shut. Even as he heard the click of a lock, he tried to breathe. Fuzz still blackened his peripherals. _Breathe_ , he told himself, and shut his eyes tight. He focused on the rabbit quick beat of his heart nothing else. He ignored his position, how aching he was, how vertigo still made him feel ill. He focused on breathing.

It was impossible to tell how long he lay there, getting his breathing back, falling in and out of consciousness. His face was wet with tears that tasted salty on his tongue.

He did, however, eventually realize that one of his hands was much colder than the other.

...ink?

His fingers twitched, chewed-down nails dragging through the puddle. Dimly, he realized the exposed pipe in his room must've burst. He could hear it now, vaguely, under the ringing in his ears. The pipe was gushing out ink.

Something wet and decidedly not ink trickled down his face. It tasted metallic on his tongue.

Oh, he _did_ hit that door pretty hard...

And everything was coming down... The adrenaline was giving out and his days without sleep were catching up with him. Everything was so cold. The light was too bright and everything hurt. His ears rang.

It couldn't hurt to rest. To gather himself. He let his tired eyes close. The darkness enveloped him like a cold, cold blanket.

The ink beneath him was almost a cradle, reminding him he was laying down and not falling through nothing...

...

...

Whispering.

It made his head hurt, but he didn't have the strength to open his eyes, let alone speak up and kindly ask them to hush.

It was many voices. Layering over one another, quick and soft. They grew louder by the second. Someone was crying- no, multiple people were crying.

Were they alright? He found the nothingness pulling at him, beckoning for him, and he wondered for a moment if he was dying. He didn't want to die.

The voices hurt. One shouted. Another was raving. For what, he didn't understand. The voices were so loud and clear yet so incoherent. Everything sloshed through his mind like mud, and soon the voices became a brick wall of _pain._

He just wanted to sleep.

The cold was creeping up his arm, now. It spread across his chest and he fell into it. The nothingness, the voices, they swallowed him whole, throwing him into hell itself. He couldn't open his eyes. He couldn't move. He was being torn apart. He wanted it to stop.

The voices screamed ever louder.


	22. Voice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a couple ideas but nothing stuck, oop. I think this turned out okay, though!

"Sammy?! Sammy, get up-"

_That voice..._

"Get away from him, Bendy!"

He was being lifted. His body was falling apart by the seams, only held together by the man carrying him. He didn't even have the energy to adjust his mask, which was slipping off. Each step sent a stab of pain through his head. Bursts of white danced across his fuzzy vision. Was he dying?

"Hold on, Sam- I won't let you die on me! Just hang in there!"

The voice was out of breath. Mind lagging, he was only just comprehending what was actually being said to him.

"Bendy...? My Lord...?" His own voice came out in a faint croak.

Whoever was carrying him stumbled. He didn't fall, but the force of righting himself sent white hot pain through his body. He only uttered a weak "ow" before blacking out.

* * *

"I changed it. I...actually changed it!" A short bout of rough, loud laughter tugged Sammy awake. It made his head throb. "Oh, I'm so dead...."

"Shhhut up..."

"Sammy?" The voice from before was closer now. No longer out of breath, he sounded rather...normal. Soft-spoken and worn, and very human.

Human...

"Sheep?" Opening his eyes hurt. The lights were dim but felt all too bright. Everything hurt and he could feel his destabilized body pressing against the bench under him. He didn't feel in danger of getting pulled into the well, but he knew he probably didn't look very...together.

"Are you alright? You- uh- don't look too good."

He tried to sit up and pull himself together. What had happened? He recalled tying up his sacrifice, calling out for Bendy to take it, and...

"...he tried to kill me."

Squinting against harsh light and fighting the urge to pass out again, he turned to see his savior. How funny it was, seeing the weirdly familiar sheep look so concerned after he'd tried killing him.

Turning away, he repeated, "...he tried to kill me." What else was there to say? "I...failed."

"What? No! Bendy hated you from the start!"

"Don't yell!" He only hurt himself with his own rise in volume. "...please." he raised a hand to cover his nonexistent ears. His breath caught in his throat at not feeling his mask. Strands of ink stuck to his hands when he pulled them away.

"Sorry. Here's your mask. It- it fell off." The sheep handed it over, and he was quick to put it on. "The Ink Demon tore you up pretty badly. Is there any way I can help, or is this a thing that gets fixed with time?"

"Why did he... I did good, didn't I?"

"...you're still stuck on that, huh." The man sighed and sat beside him, hands clasped in his lap. "Bendy...he didn't care about you. He nearly killed you when you tried to be helpful. I think that's rather telling."

"Who do you think you are to speak of him? Just who even are you?" Getting defensive, he turned and scooted away from him. He crossed his arms and glared. Just that little movement made his arms start dripping again. "You don't even know me!"

"You're Sammy Lawrence, the music director." He said simply, in that stupidly calm tone of his. "You worship the Ink Demon."

"Who _are_ you and how do you-" his breath caught on his own ink and he coughed hard for a moment. The man pat his back, only to cringe when his hand came away slicked with ink. "H-how do you know who I am? Why do you sound- and look- so familiar?" He's seen the man somewhere, and the memory sat in the back of his mind, just out of his reach.

"I'm... Henry. Henry Stein."

The memory inched ever-closer. "...I recall a Henry. Somewhere..." He sighed and pressed his masked face into his hands. A headache was creeping up the base of his skull.

_The animator... Creator of Bendy..._

It clicked. "Henry!"

"Yes?"

Sammy grabbed him by the shoulders, giving himself whiplash. "Yes, I remember! You- you worked here, from before- Agh!" Thick globs of ink were slipping off of him. He pulled his arms back and clutched himself. "I... I've met you before."

"Yeah, I... I remember when you were hired. A trip down memory lane, huh..." He stood up to give him room to lay back down. "Just focus on healing."

"A-absolutely not, you're going to answer..." His head drooped a moment, threatening to send him into unconsciousness. "Ugh- You're going to answer my questions...!"

"No I'm not. We have all the time in the world here." Henry sounded so sure of it. He hated how sure and steady his voice was. Was he not shaken? Did he not hate him for trying to sacrifice him?

"What if- what if my Lord returns?"

"He won't. Get some rest." He set a hand on his chest and pushed him back down. He found he was too tired to fight back. "We'll be fine, I promise."

He believed him.


	23. Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack died? No, I refuse  
> Jack lived? yes please I will ignore otherwise

Jack knew the sewers inside and out. He _lived_ in them. They were his back alleys through the studio. He knew all the safest routes, all the places he could sit and rest for days if he so desired. It was one of the few things that really stuck in his mind.

Getting lost should've been _impossible_.

But there he was, sitting in an unfamiliar room, staring out the door at an unfamiliar hall.

Distressed, he automatically squeezed his hands into fists- only to realize he wasn't holding his pipe valve. Sounding even more distressed, he turned in a full circle, but his valve was nowhere to be seen. He didn't drop it somewhere, did he? He _never_ dropped things. There was a reason he still had his hat after so-

Where was his hat?

That somehow caused him more sadness than loosing his valve. He couldn't remember what happened- he'd been in the boiler room, his favorite spot to rest because it was warm and nobody could get in. It was boarded up and he could chose to press up against the boards and watch Sammy if he wished.

He'd been in the boiler room, and then what? Thinking about anything beyond that made his head hurt. Had something _bad_ happened in his haven? He would've remembered something bad happening, wouldn't he?

Maybe it was _so_ bad he couldn't remember, and he should stay away from there for a while. Yes, that made sense. It still left him hopelessly lost, but it answered a question.

Well, sitting around wasn't going to help anything, so he got to slowly inching his way across the room. Other than him, all was quiet and still in the office. The door was open and he poked his head through undeterred.

The hall led down, down, and it reminded him vaguely of an alley. It didn't look finished, with drywall and bare, hard-packed earth exposed in the opposite direction.

"Ghh..." This place just _screamed_ potential danger. Part of him considered diving back into the ink, but the chances of him finding his way back to familiar territory...

A low groan escaped his throat once more. He heard noise. Voices? Not the familiar gurgling of searchers, but it sounded like clear voices. Like Sammy but _different_.

"Did you here something?"

"It sounded like a searcher."

"Back there?"

"They hide out in the unfinished areas sometimes."

Panicking, Jack tried to back away into the office. He couldn't hide away in the ink- he had nowhere to go!

Two figures stood blocking the only way out. They were skeletal and had bright, yellow eyes. He let out a distressed noise and pressed himself back into the office.

"Oh, it's a swollen one! Is it lost?"

"They do tend to pop in and out of the ink very often."

"It's not one of ours, that's for sure."

It was impossible to tell which one was speaking. They didn't have mouths and they sounded eerily similar. One stepped closer. "There's no need to be afraid!"

Drawing himself up to his full height, which wasn't very tall at all, he hissed at them. The other tilted their head and squinted at him. "Why isn't he going back to the ink if he's scared?"

"I don't know! Hey, it's okay. We can help you." The first one shortened the distance between them. "We don't get a lot of new searchers here. You're lost, aren't you?"

They got another short hiss, and Jack backed fully into the office. He gripped the door and moved to shut it before they could get any closer.

He wasn't fast enough, and one touched him. It was a light hand on his shoulder, but he let out a sharp whine. He nearly dove into the ink roulette right then.

They pulled their hand away. "Oh, wow! Okay. Okay, sorry, jeez! I'm not gonna hurt you!"

"Let's get him out to the others. Maybe seeing the miners will calm him down. Familiarity seems to comfort them."

"You heard her. Let's go meet the others. It's safe, I swear."

_Safe?_

"That's got your attention! Yeah, this place is safe." They backed up and motioned for him to follow. When he didn't budge, they took him by the hand. "Come on!"

He didn't have much of a choice, so he followed. The thought of other friendly brings had never crossed his mind. He thought 'crazed musical cultist' was as kind as it got. Who and what were these tall ink people?

Beyond the hall was...a town. Lit by golden lights strung up against buildings and the eyes of its inhabitants was a town. Multistory wooden buildings held up by pipes leaned against one another. More ink people stood around. They chatted and walked about like it was a normal day. Some carried toolboxes or armfuls of wood.

There were more creatures like him. Hunched over and large, huddled in groups out of the way. One was tugging along a wheelbarrow with wood piped onto it. They all wore helmets. Miner helmets, like in a cartoon.

It amazed him. And it terrified him. While nobody seemed to notice him, they still could pose a threat. There were so many, it would be so easily to get outnumbered if they attached. He wondered how much it would hurt to get hit by a plank of wood.

The hand on his shoulder suddenly became a danger. He jerked back, away from the person, and backed right into the other one.

Something heavy dropped into his head-

_A crate, it was a crate he'd always known there was a crate dangling by chains but he'd never seen it fall so how could he have known? It had always been still it was impossible for it to fall and yet it did and he didn't have time to run because it was already on him and he was so scared the thing chased him and wanted to hurt him-_

"Aw, you scared the poor guy! Don't cry!" They knelt in front of him. "Could'a warned him! Christ, you scared the poor guy to tears!"

"Sorry! It's not common for his kind to tolerate new things! I decided to just get it over with!" She crouched by his side and tapped the thing she'd put on his head. "Well, he's got a helmet now, so he's identifiable-"

He reached up to feel it. It was a miner helmet, like what the others in the little town wore. A hat. Not as good as his bowler hat, but it was comforting nonetheless. He felt along the straps and buckled it under his chin almost immediately.

"You listening, new guy?" They asked. He nodded idly, only half paying attention. The hat wasn't so bad. Nobody else was taking notice of him. They were like him, no doubt probably once scared just like he was, and they seemed perfectly happy.

"Alright! This is the Lost Harbor. Get it, because we're lost ones and getting here is a herculean chore?" They motioned to beyond the buildings. A vast, inky lake stretched into the darkness, away from the warm lights. "We're just living life here-"

"Which means no fighting! We're peaceful folk, got it?"

Jack nodded, pulling his arms around himself. The last thing he wanted was to be any part of violence. A peaceful place seemed just fine. Surreal, even.

"Great! The hat's just so you can see where you're going and so we know you're with us whenever you go out. Searchers like diving in and out of ink like it's nobody's business." She pat him on the shoulder, and he didn't feel a spike of panic. "Want a tour?"

Again, he nodded, not feeling so lost anymore.


	24. Heart

If he could think, he might've called himself traumatized.

Trudging on with no direction in mind, flickers on incoherent memories would make him pause and thrash his head to and fro. He thought nothing about his situation, only remembered what had already happened.

_An horrid creature that glowed with an ethereal uncanniness. A smile._

_Tools. The crack of being ripped open. Tight restraints._

A mournful wail escaped him, echoing through his head. It came out a shriek that made his speaker crack and pop.

Each heavy step rattled him back to reality. Walking was painful, but then again, existing was painful. His shoulders were weighed down. A full throbbing started up in his neck and bloomed into a numbing headache. His chest ached, hollow and robbed.

She stole it.

He couldn't recall her voice or the way she laughed. Her form, though, warped and incomplete, haunted him. The way she limped and the way her arms seemed to lack joints was engrained in his mind's eye.

Already, though, it was fuzzier than before. Where he'd come from, where he was going was no longer a question in his mind. He simply walked, because if he stopped the pain would set in and he'd collapse and not get up for a long, long time.

Clicking filled his head. Constant clicking of empty sprockets and gears turning over nothing. Nothing else made noise beyond the sounds his own cursed body produced. Nothing mattered beyond what his light showed him.

The wooden floor made his head hurt more, and anything more was unbearable. The dust in the air, the grooves in each unique plank, the ink embedded between boards, he could spend the rest of his days examining each one, drinking it all in. It was so much. So much to feel, to see, to pass by and forget.

Something touched him.

It was a light tap on his leg, and it sent him into a frenzy. The noise he let out _hurt_ , and he nearly fell over trying to turn. His light danced around him, showing too much too fast, until it showed what had dared touch him.

It was all wrong. A thing with three arms and two mouths, looking up at him with mismatched eyes. Its mouth- the mouth atop its head- clacked open and shut like a fish gasping for air.

It moved. Thin arms moved to cover its awful face, clinking against the larger mechanical arm, and it ducked away from his light.

He didn't feel himself move. His hand reached out towards it, grasping it by the neck. He lifted it, and its wild thrashing really _pissed him off_.

Everything hurt. All through his skull, coursing down his spine to swell in his empty chest. Too much to keep track of, too much at once. He wanted it to stop.

He tore it apart.

Its fragile gut split open. There in its chest, protected by frail little ribs, sat its heart, still beating.

He didn't have one. Why should it have what he lacked? Let it feel what he felt, let it feel the emptiness, the swelling feeling of being incomplete and wrong-

Let it _suffer_ like he had-

Again, he screamed. Envy poured out of him in a ringing shriek, boiling and overflowing and echoing. Steam left him with a hiss and his light brightened, almost hurting himself but not quite. No light could hurt him, though he hated it plenty. His roar echoed across the cavernous room, thrumming in his mind.

Letting its still body drop, he clutched its heart. It was cold, pulating in his hands, leaking ink through the ventricles. Shaking with a foreign jealousy, he held it close. Feeling it beat again him provided the illusion of living.

She had wanted his heart. He saw what she did with it. If he could sleep, it would no doubt plague his nightmares.

Nobody deserved that.

He looked down at the heart in his hands.

She didn't deserve it.

The corpse caught his attention. He picked it up by the head. It was sticky. Gross. But he'd bring it somewhere she couldn't get to, and it could hold its heart there.

She didn't deserve the hearts. Why she wanted them, he didn't care. No hearts would ever fall into her hands again.

No creatures meant no hearts. Anything that moved had hearts and filled him with that painful, angry envy. Anything that moved could be stolen away like he was, used and mutilated. If he got to them first, tore their pitiful hearts out before she could...

With that idea settling itself in his mind, dark and heavy and sinking, he limped on.

The room was large with many things. They bore faces but were unmoving and soft. There were metal bars, wood, cardboard, textures, and things he didn't know the names of. Too many things.

He dragged the corpse along, squeezing the heart like it was a stress ball. It pumped ink out onto his hands, sticking to his palm.

The room had looked so small. The patterns of the gates were complex and painful, but if he stared at the floor, his head wouldn't hurt. So he wandered in and stood there.

The floor trembled. He nearly fell over, stumbling to right his stance. The corpse fell from his grasp and his hand flew to the wall. It grasped nothing, and the room itself shaking wasn't helping-

The elevator dropped.

He screamed only for a second before he lost his footing. His head met the wall and sent a jarring pain through him. His sight flickered, brightening and dimming and turning off completely for seconds at a time.

His head rang. Slumping against the gate, he nearly crushed the heart. The elevator clattered to a halt, but he didn't dare move for several minutes. His legs shook, threatening to give out on him. The pain returned.

But nothing else happened. When he turned, the gates had opened. Was the outside always so empty? Had it changed?

He almost forgot to bring the corpse with him. What had he wanted the ugly thing for, again? He forgot, so he let it drop against the banister and set the heart in its hand. That looked about right.

What did he need the heart for, again...? He'd had a plan not long ago...

He needed to keep them. Why...? Who cared why? He _knew_ and that was what mattered. He had to hoard them. Nobody else could have them. That much he knew. He had to keep the hearts safe from thieves.

Looking over the balcony was a mistake. The floor, dark and liquid, moved and stirred. It shone in his light and something in it tried to get away. So many things moved in the ink. They flinched away from his light and some dipped into the ink while others tried fleeing out of sight.

It was a sickening sight. Spawning grounds of movement and headaches. He wondered if they had hearts, too.

Well, he was about to find out.


	25. Sunshine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I adore working on the Projectionist. His backstory and his goldfish memory of his situation is so fun to write. This prompt was probably meant to be happy or hopeful, but consider: not doing that

_Bendy was having a picnic. Alice Angel was helping him set the checkered blanket down in the shade of a tree. Boris was getting into the food basket already._

_It was a nice day. The grass and leaves rustled in a light breeze. There wasn't a cloud in sight and the sun glowed unobstructed._

He liked the sun. The rest barely held his attention, but even a cartoon sun was pleasant. The warmth of sunshine upon his skin was something he missed.

_The wind picked up and swept the blanket away. Bendy let out a choppy, alarmed whistle and took off after it. Alice reached out to stop him, but it was too late. The devil darling tripped over his own feet and fell over, crashing down the hill in a comical ball of limbs and action lines._

Something tapped the side of his head. It was a fuzzy feeling, like a memory on the cusp of being forgotten.

_Bendy landed on his face, limbs splayed out. Birds chirped in a circle around him, only to get scared by something above and flutter away, chirping. A second later, the picnic blanket drifted down and enveloped him._

His arm lifted. Someone was holding it by the wrist. It was numb with pins and needles. He could barely feel it, even as it was dropped back onto his knee. Was he sitting? He didn't recall sitting.

_The scene panned back to Boris. He popped the last sandwich into his mouth and swallowed. Smacking his lips, he tossed the basket behind him and laid back. Within seconds, he was asleep. Alice sighed and shook her head, facepalming with one hand on her hip in disappointment._

_Bendy was struggling to get up. He was tangled up in the blanket and kept stumbling. His head finally popped through, but before he could do anything, the basket landed on him. He fell forwards with a squeak._

A hand drummed finger on his shoulder. The hurt shoulder, the one that made his arm numb with pain.

_Alice stepped beside him. She lifted the basket off his head and pat between his horns. He sniveled, teary-eyed, and hugged her. She seemed to think for a moment before pulling out a dime. She motioned to a nearby ice cream vendor, selling cones for 5¢. Bendy brightened up instantly._

He didn't like the touch. He flinched away from it. In response, another hand knocked against his head. It rattled him inside and out. Pain stung at the base of his neck.

_Black encroached around them. It circled their smiling faces for only a second before snapping over them. Darkness enveloped everything._

He wanted to go back to the sun. Forget the demon and angel, he wanted to be reminded of the outside. He wanted to look at the grass again and feel the breeze on his skin. To feel warm sunlight on his face and...

The reels began to spin backwards, rewinding themselves. Sprockets clicked and the film hissed back to its original reel. Again, he'd watch it. Again, he wanted to experience that moment of euphoria and warmth-

Another flick against his head. There was a violent tug, and the reels were yanked free. Film spun loose and sprockets clicked over nothing, and light projected _nothing_ -

And he could see again.

Everything _hurt_. His head, his chest, his arms and legs, everything hurt _so damn much._ Where was he? Why did it hurt to be alive all of the sudden? He had to get out. He shouldn't be there-

A new reel clicked in place. Feeling drained away as sprockets were filled with film once more. They clicked away and the tension left his body. It didn't feel good, but at least he wasn't in pain. It was just...numb.

_Bendy was pulling a sled uphill. He was almost to the top, with his boots digging into deep snow with every step. He paused, panting, to wipe his brow, and got right back to trudging._

He missed the sunlight. Where was the warmth? It was cold, covered in snow. Or was that just what he was seeing...? He felt uncomfortably warm, almost feverish, but his hands were cold...

_The sky was grey. It began to snow, piling onto Bendy. He lost his footing and tumbled all the way down. He was a snowball by the time he reached the bottom._

Where was the sun? Where was _he_? He should know. He was...somewhere. A place with yellowing walls and...

Where...

_Boris walked by. He spotted Bendy and rolled him off. Alice was nearby, just finished the bottom of a snowman. She helped Boris lift him on top of the snowball._

He didn't want to see this.

_Bendy's head popped out. He blinked and looked around. At realizing his situation, he wiggled. Boris and Alice laughed at his predicament, one teasing and the other good-natured._

Where was he? His...his work. His job. Where did he work?

Somewhere with projectors...?

_The same black surrounded the scene. It circled Bendy's grumpy face before covering it with a pop._

The pain returned. He wanted to go home. He was...he shouldn't be there. When was the last time he'd stepped outside...?

The reel was removed with inexperienced hands. Film tore apart within him and snagged on parts before being yanked free.

Once more, he could see. The walls were sepia and ink leaked between boards. His hand twitched and rolled at the joint. Feeling rushed through him, both good and bad.

He had to get out. Wherever he was, he wanted out. He lifted an arm, but another reel was being pushed in place. Again, he was blinded.

Not again not again _not again not again not again_ -

Limbs shaky, he raised his hands. Or was he? He couldn't feel his own body, only see a new cartoon beginning to play.

_Bendy was at a park. He sat on a bench, legs kicking, as he whistled to himself. Another, squeakier pitch joined him, and a little spider waddled up to him, clutching a duck toy in its hands._

_Move_ , he told himself. He tried to pull at the reel supports and tug. A thinner hand grasped his wrist, but he wasn't stopping. Was he holding the reel or the supports? He didn't care, he just wanted to _feel_ again, to get out of his horrible limbo.

_It was a sunny day-_

The pain was worse. It lapsed through him, and the full reel tumbled off and took the empty one with it. The front supports were bent outwards- _broken_. Never again to hold a reel.

He'd get outside. He'd run and then he'd see the sun himself. He'd be warm and away from the cold hand that hurt him.

The hand...who-

He turned and screamed at the sight of her. She was uncanny in all the worst ways, human but barely. She was yelling, scrambling back.

They stumbled away from each other. Throbbing pain coursed through his head, but he clung to-

Where was he going?

He looked behind him to see a door had slammed shut. The room spun around him and he found himself fallen to his knees.

After a while of his mind trying to grasp his situation, he lifted his head. Had it always been so weighted? The crick in his neck was painful and spread to his upper back, which slouched under foreign weight. The room he was in was big and overwhelming. So much detail to take in, built with dusty metal and creaky wood and speckles of liquid that glinted back at him like the eyes of a predator.

....where was he, again?


	26. Crying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you think Henry eventually grows numb?

Sammy felt like he had a personal vendetta with the sheep. The guy was _weird_ , always stonefaced and mechanical with his movements, like nothing ever surprised him. He swung his axe with practiced precision and spoke with the same bland tone.

It was _frustrating_. He was used to the jumpy cutouts and flooded rooms. But the sheep? He should at least look a little _confused_!

He tied him up tighter than necessary just so he could give him a piece of his mind without him potentially escaping. Rope dug into flesh so tight it would no doubt bruise.

"You're really _weird_ , you know that?! You're in a studio where the ink _moves_ and tries to kill you! The least you can do is look concerned! You didn't bat an eye when you crushed Jack! 'Nice hat'?! Real nice!"

The sheep's eyes were widening, ever so slightly. That was _satisfying_. He went on, pacing in front of him and raising his hands in exasperation. "Surely this place isn't boring! I'm used to it, of course, but you aren't! You- you look like nothing can surprise you!"

The man's lips pressed into a thin line. His brows furrowed. Clearly picking his words carefully, he said, "Well... I mean..." He hesitated.

"We don't have all day! My Lord is waiting!" Of course, he was still going to sacrifice him, but a little bit of questioning couldn't hurt. "Spit it out already."

"....am I really that apathetic?" His voice became oddly soft, compared to his usual monotone voice. It was... uncomfortable, in a way he couldn't place.

"Considering you murder anything that moves, I'd say yes, you are rather sociopathic." He leaned close to his face and let out a thoughtful hum. Something about him...

"I'm sorry. I... I stopped saying that to you all a while ago, but... I am sorry. For everything." Shoulders slumping, he bowed his head. Sammy noted he wasn't struggling.

That only brought up more questions. He tapped the bottom of his mask and leaned back. "What are you talking about?" He _had_ hit him pretty hard...maybe he'd concussed him. The ravings of a sacrificial sheep was interesting to hear, either way.

"You're going to die-" Sammy snorted, but the man went on undeterred. "I've tried everything. I'm sorry, Sammy... I've tried to stop it. I've begged, I've- I've cried, and nothing's stopped it, so I'll say it now. I'm so sorry. I... I just want you to know that. Just this once."

"You poor, sick thing. May our Lord make your death swift and painless." Sammy almost felt bad for him. But love required sacrifice, so he only looked back at him once when walking away. What a curious mind that one had.

"Sammy..." Suddenly, the man sobbed. "I-I'm so tired of this."

He paused, just about to open the door to his recording booth and get it over with. He looked back at him to see him _crying_. For some reason, that really unnerved him. He couldn't cry, and seeing someone with actual watery, clear tears running down their face... It began to make him feel guilty.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry... This probably doesn't make sense to you and- and I probably look like a lunatic..."

Lord, the man really did have issues, didn't he?

With that pitiful thought, he stepped into his booth and lightly pulled his microphone closer. No time for doubt- the time for sacrifice was neigh.

"Sheep, sheep, sheep, it's time for sleep. Rest your head, it's time for bed. In the morning, you may wake, or in the morning, you'll be dead." He paused just a breath, then continued, letting his voice boom and echo for his lord to hear. "Hear me, Bendy! Come forth and take this tender sheep!"

The human kept his head bowed and cried. It was soft, with the shaking of his shoulders and the hitch of every breath giving him away. Sammy pretended to ignore it continued. "HEAR ME, MY LORD! ACCEPT MY SACRIFICE!"

He could see the man's lips moving. Just barely, he could make out the words _I'm sorry_ , changed over and over like a mantra.

The vents above rattled. He felt a drop of ink fall off his arm, signaling his Lord's powerful, terrifying aura.

A thought crossed his mind, almost distracting him from the arrival of the Ink Demon. It was an oddly intrusive thought, so invading it pushed into the forefront of his mind even as he turned to be face to face with his god.

He'd never told the man his name.


	27. Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mild description of gore/organs

"Alright, that's just silly if you think we're all fitting in there."

The trio stared at the little cart. Even Norman was giving Henry a look, as if asking if he _really_ believed they'd all fit in there. Sammy shook his head. "You say you're sure we're meant to get in here?"

"I've done it a hundred times." He raised his hands and tentatively signed along with speaking. It was a miracle he'd found a book on ASL. Norman had been elated to have a way to communicate. "At the ballroom, Boris is going to pop out and going to try to kill us. I want us to at least restrain him."

"You mean the seven foot tall goliath is going to restrain him."

"...yes, holding Boris will likely be Norman's job." He sighed. "I don't want to kill him, but... It's likely we'll have to in the end." Saying that aloud made him wince. "But I want to try talking to him."

"What did Alice even do to him? Boris was really thin and lanky. Not very strong at all."

Getting into the cart, he simply said, "You'll see. Now get in."

With great reluctance, Sammy sat beside him. It was an uncomfortably tight squeeze. Norman took one look at them before signing _I'll walk_ and stepping behind the cart.

The ride started up and the first set of doors swung open. Alice's voice crackled over an unseen radio. " _And now the ride truly begins. Come in and pretend it's all just a bad dream._ "

The cart turned a corner. Henry was tempted to warn the other two about the jumpscares, but truthfully he wanted to see their reactions. The first ghost popped up and Sammy jumped a little. He groaned and shook his head, shoulders hunching in shame. "I can't believe that got me..." Norman, meanwhile, let out a short burst of static and nearly jumped out of his skin. Grumbling incoherence, he passed them in two strides and punted the cutout ghost.

"There's more where that came from." Henry couldn't help but smile. Sammy held a hand over the mouth of his mask, his shoulders shaking with barely contained laughter.

" _It's a funny thing how so much can fall apart so fast._ " Alice hummed from above, though nobody was listening to her.

As they went on, Norman effectively became paranoid about any tacky gravestone and gripped the back of the cart in a death grip. He didn't seem to believe Henry's reassurance that there was no danger in the enclosed halls. This was endlessly entertaining for Sammy, who'd cackle whenever the taller man jumped.

" _Do you just enjoy the terror of the drop into hell? Because if that's the case... Hang_ _on tight. I've got a surprise..._ "

"Final door. Get ready." Henry chimed.

The wooden gates swung out, revealing the grand room. He reached back and motioned for Norman to get off the tracks. He stepped aside and walked alongside them, taking everything in.

The gate at the end creaked open, revealing the gaping blackness beyond. "Well, this I don't like..." Sammy muttered under his breath.

Thick, gloved hands grasped the front of the cart. Norman's light turned towards the figure, illuminating what Boris had become in a golden glow. Brute Boris leaned in close, letting out a gutteral growl.

"HenRY WHAT THE HELL IS THAT OH-"

The cart was shoved back. Even Norman seemed horrified, backing away from the monstrosity. Henry held on tight as the cart was thrown. Sammy was less quick to move and fell out with a scream.

Alice howled with laughter. " _Meet the new and improved Boris! I took what I want, and in return, I gave him so much more! And this time, there's no Demon, no escape._ "

Henry staggered out of the cart and helped Sammy up. He yanked him off the rails as Boris charged.

" _Boris! Tear them apart! Leave nothing!_ "

"Henry, what is that?!" Sammy hissed. They backed away from the monster. "You could've warned us better, I think!"

Norman lunged at Boris and barreled into him like a charging bull. His shriek echoed off the walls. The brute grabbed him by the shoulders, pressing the reel further into his shoulder, and launched him into a nearby pile of barrels. He crashed into it in a flailing mess of limbs and splinters.

However, he clutched something in his hand. "Oh lord, is that an organ?!" Yes it was, and Boris didn't seem to deal well with it being ripped out. He doubled over, heaving, as ink spurt from his gaping chest.

Henry let go of Sammy and bolted. Ignoring the startled cry questioning his will to live, he snatched up the thick glob of ink that had been ejected. He bolted past him only for Boris to grab him from behind. He yelped. "Sammy, you see that despenser over there?!"

"Henry! I- yes, yes I see it-"

"Catch! Go get a bone!"

"Wh- that's disgusting!" But he caught it anyways, a violent shiver running through him. He pieced together what he was meant to do and bolted to the machine.

Henry was yanked up into Boris's arms. He screamed as he was thrown. Norman was up- when he'd leapt up he didn't know- and wrapped his arms around Boris's neck in a chokehold. He gripped the bars of the makeshift cone digging into him and didn't let go.

Shoulder and hip stinging with pain, he rolled into his front and pushed himself up. He looked up at the fight before him. It was truly a terrifying a sight to see. Norman clutching Boris, who shook and jerked side to side in an attempt to shake him off.

With a sickening crack, he snapped off one of the bars supporting the cone. He stabbed it into his back, wrapping his hands around one fist. Boris lunged away from him, but he dug his heels into the ground and didn't let go, heaving with exertion.

"Henry!" Sammy was at his side, casting quick glances over his shoulder at the fight happening behind him. Holding a bone fetched from the despenser under one arm, he helped him up. "I think this is the closest we're gonna get to restraining him!"

"Boris!" He stood in front of his old friend. He hoped to get through to him. Looking into his crossed out eyes, he tried to keep his voice even. "Boris, calm down. Please! We don't have to fight! I don't want to kill you. We have a bone! You like bones, remember?" Getting desperate, he stepped closer.

He tore himself free from Norman and lunged at him. Sammy raised the bone and hit Boris across the chest. It struck bone and squishy organs with a solid _thump_ and melted into ink. "He's gone! Boris is dead! I'm sorry, but we've got to put this thing out of its misery!"

"Boris, no..." his heart sank. He's managed to save everyone so far- he couldn't kill Boris! There had to be a way to save him! Sammy pulled him away by the arm. Boris slammed his fists where they'd been a second prior.

Ink bled out of his gaping chest and he paused, clutching nothing. He heaved and another chunk of thick ink fell out of his chest cavity with a sticky splat. Wet, strained breaths escaped him in quick puffs. It pained Henry to see him like that, no doubt in so much pain.

Norman skidded around Boris, his speaker crackling with a broken roar. He reeled back his fist and hit Boris square in his open chest. It was a horrible wet, meaty sound.

Sammy let go of Henry. He struck Boris as hard as he could, digging his hand into his chest and pulling out a nondescript organ with a wet _crack_. It turned to ink in his hands.

That was what did it. Boris groaned and stumbled back. Both their hands were drenched in ink up to the elbow. Norman shoved Boris down. Sammy cringed, shaking the access ink off, and watched as Boris began to turn to ink. Dark splotches spread over his corpse.

" _NO! No, no, no!_ "

A sob escaped Henry's throat. He hadn't realized he was crying. Sammy jolted slightly and returned to his side, awkwardly wrapping his non gore-covered arm around him. "...I'm sorry." He said quietly, obviously out of his element but doing his best. "You shouldn't watch-"

" _Why won't you ever just die?!_ " the roar of outrage seemed so much closer.

"N-Norman-! Careful!" There really wasn't a point in calling out to a deaf man, but he was too drained to think about it. Alice sprinted towards them out of nowhere, her face curled into a nasty scowl.

Norman was more than excited to rush at her with murderous intent. As if invigorated after beating Boris, he threw himself at Alice with outstretched arms.

"Tom, look out!"

He narrowly missed barreling down Thomas Connor, instead mowing down Alice. She didn't really stand a chance, but she kicked and clawed at him anyways, fueled by rage.

Well, this meeting was definitely new. Taking a deep breath, Henry gathered himself. He ignored the sight and sound of Norman mauling Alice and turned to the new duo. Tears still wet on his face, he gave a strained smile.

"There's two...?!" Sammy looked between them, tensing at noticing the strangers were both armed. He stared at Allison especially, who looked just a little put off by the Bendy mask. Tom looked equally wary, casting a glance at the murder happening beside him. He stepped out of the way.

Henry had the guts to wave at them, still looking shaken and emotionally wrecked. "Um...hi, Allison. Tom. It's good to see you two."


	28. Hollow

Henry cherished the respite in Allison and Tom's safehouse. He had no complains about a place to sleep. Sammy, while hating every moment not on the move, let him have the bed and vowed to keep watch for their return. He wasn't shy about how little he trusted Allison and Tom. How Norman felt about being there was hard to say, but he had no want to get out despite having the strength to do so. He seemed content to sit against the corner and let his light turn off for a few minutes at a time.

He sat there quietly, phasing in and out of rest and left alone with his thoughts. They'd become less scattered since he met them. They were grounding, in their own ways. No more was he left in the dark, clueless and without a guide. Henry was a smart, patient man and was happy to learn the basics of sign language with him. He was a good man...

...a human.

Did he consider himself human anymore? A person, maybe, but no longer was he made of flesh and blood. Wires and machinery filled him. His chest was hollow where a heart should've been and he'd forgotten what a heartbeat felt like. He had no nose or mouth to breathe from, only vents that kept him from overheating. He was warm on the inside thanks to whirring machinery and wires pumping ink but his extremities remained cold and anemic.

An idea popped into his head. Any thought of what else he could do to wait or potential consequences was lost on him. It was a damn good idea, he believed, and he acted on it immediately.

Henry was out cold across the room. Moving slowly, he crept to his side. He thought he was being quiet or at least nonchalant, but little did he know Sammy was staring at him with mild curiosity and suspicion. To be fair, he did look rather shady, hunched over in their makeshift prison and making an effort to not wake Henry.

Watching the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed made his own ache. He only stared for a moment, his light dim as to not alert him. He settled onto his knees and leaned into the sleeping man, finally resting the side of his head against his chest.

He could feel his heartbeat.

It was strong. Alive. Even his body heat was comforting, in a weird way. It was different from his own; it was organic natural. Feeling the man was alive and breathing and so completely _human_ was...nice. The hollow ache in his chest and the gnawing want to fill it was quelled, just a little.

Henry shifted under him. He stretched and groaned softly. Norman was delighted to _feel_ him groan, to feel the reverberation deep in his chest against his head. Getting an idea, he moved his hand up to his throat and set it there, hoping to feel it more clearly.

He was _speaking_. The thrum of his vocal chords and the slight bob of his adam's apple was fascinating. Had talking always so been so...pleasant? So nice to feel? So complex, with every moving muscle in the jaw and neck moving like a well-oiled machine? He could feel Henry's heartrate speed up, thrumming quicker against him. Even more lovely.

Letting his light shut off completely, he basked in the feeling and let it fill him, reminded of a time long passed. He could almost recall his voice...it had been so long since he'd heard Henry talk... He'd been much younger. Was his voice different now, worn with age?

What had he sounded like? Digging up dusty memories packed away for years was a surreal thing. He'd been...what had he been like? No doubt just as calm and patient as he was now... His voice was soft. Yes, that seemed right. He wasn't soft-spoken, no, he made himself heard very well, but he was kind and thoughtful all the while. He never yelled...

A hand settled on the back of his head. Henry ran a thumb over a wire idly before patting him lightly on his good shoulder. He said something else and tried sitting up. Reluctantly, Norman pulled himself off of him and sat up. His light flickered on, showing the concerned and confused look on Henry's face. He said something and the memory of him speaking against him made his hand tingle and recalling the feeling of a heartbeat made his chest ache.

Standing, he backed off and signed, _I wanted to feel your heartbeat_.

By the look on Henry's face, that was a creepy thing to say. He didn't apologize, though, and turned away to return to his corner and mull over the stimuli for the next century.

Just a few seconds ticked by of him standing there before he started to miss it. He couldn't bring himself to leave it. The human warmth, a body filled with life and blood and bone. He slowly turned back around.

Stretching, Henry caught his eye and raised a brow. He visibly sighed, and he could almost imagine what that felt like, his chest falling as warm breath left him. The man sat against the wall and motioned for him to join.

More than happy to oblige, he pressed himself close, reveling in it all. Maybe how he was acting was absolutely creepy or weird, but he reasoned he hadn't felt another living thing in years. The cartoons and living ink were cold and had a heart that beat, but ripping them apart and toying with ink hearts wasn't nearly as fulfilling as hugging a real, breathing human.

If he were bothering Henry at all, he wasn't showing it. He wrapped an arm around him and let him settle an arm over his chest. A smile tugged at the man's face, one of slight amusement. He motioned across the room with his other arm, where Sammy stood, staring at them with that expressionless mask. He still had a feeling he was utterly baffled.

His chest thrummed with new speech. Saying who knows what, Henry motioned to his other side and shrugged, looking thoroughly amused.

Turning back to Sammy, he saw him pressed opposite them, arms crossed and shaking his head. He could guess what he and Henry were talking about. He found he really didn't care.

His light faded as he relaxed. How long passed, he couldn't tell. One moment he was practically asleep against Henry, the next their position was being disturbed as a third joined.

Sammy rest his head on Henry's shoulder and didn't move an inch, his shoulders tensed and stiff. He was much, much colder than himself. Henry shivered when he leaned against him, and goosebumps rose along his arm. What did Sammy's heart feel like, he wondered. Did it beat slower than Henry's?

When he tried to reached across Henry and touch him, though, his hand got swatted away. Mask askew with his position, he could see Sammy scowling at him. Ah well, he could wait. He was more than content with Henry.

Settling back with Henry's comforting heart beating against him, he let his light turn off completely. The slow, calm thrum lulled him to the closest he could get to true sleep.

Not too long after, Sammy eased up and dozed off, leaving Henry sandwiched between them.

It must've been an odd sight for Allison and Tom when they returned.


	29. Despair

_The well was overflowing. Rarely had this many voices been pressed in, mixing into each other in a cacophony of screaming and sobbing and begging._

_Swollen searchers were resilient. They held together well both mentally and physically and popped back up soon after being killed. Jack was no exception, but even then, finding his own thoughts was a struggle-_

_He pulled himself upwards, forcing himself to focus on what was metaphorically in front of him. The voices around him didn't matter. They pulled at him, just as scared and incoherent as he was. Some that didn't know which way to go pushed passed him, delving deeper into the chaos._

_Rather violently, he was spat out._

Jack coughed up ink as he breached the surface, slumping onto bare wood. It dug into his stomach, but he pulled himself closer just to get out of potentially being sucked in again. Shaking, he righted himself and looked around. The well was a merciless roulette and could throw one out into a lake of ink. There was wood beside him, though- that had to be a good sign, even if he wasn't in his familiar boiler room. At least he wasn't in a flooded...hm.

Beyond him was a staircase. He'd popped out right beside it. Below him and all around him was ink- a couple inches high. The whole room was filled with it- as well as other searchers.

A _lot_ of searchers.

As in, he's never seen so many searchers in one place before. Some huddled together while others cowered in corners. Beyond the room looked like a hall, where no doubt more lay in the darkness.

It was a downright _spawning ground_. If it weren't so scary, he would've been in awe. Searchers rarely attacked each other,but the souls in the well had been so restless, it wasn't out of the question a few would be unnaturally hostile...

The stairs creaked as he dragged himself up them. Only a couple others had pulled themselves into the balcony, and moved well away from the stairs as he joined them. They had the same idea and sat far away from each other, eyeing one another for any signs of hostility. He was closest to the stairs, so if they attacked he could dive down into the ink fast enough...

A rattling broke his thoughts. He and the others looked up at the center of the balcony. An elevator shaft, he realized, and pressed himself against the banister fearfully.

What came down, however, wasn't the elevator, but a rope. Two people stepped out, one helping the other. Cartoons, he realized. He didn't know they actually existed outside of Sammy's stories. An imperfect Alice and a Boris with a prosthetic arm.

The Boris eyed him warily while the Alice surveyed the room. She unhooked something from her belt. A megaphone. He clamped his hands over where his ears should be just in time. He heard her voice well enough.

" _Attention_ , _everyone!_ " Her voice rang out, false confidence bouncing off the walls. The quiver in her voice became more apparent once the searchers looked up at her. Some looked scared, others irritated. Murmurs rippled through them. Jack wondered why the two were there as well. " _As you may have noticed, things have been odd lately! Ever since Henry, the human, had arrived, things have changed-_ "

One particularly loud soul spoke up, in near hysterics. "The Projectionist is dead! Bendy finally killed it!"

" _Y-yes, it appears Bendy has killed the Projectionist, and you are all safe here now. But that's not why we're here!_ " She continued, a little more sure of herself. Or she got better at faking it. " _Alice Angel is dead. The one who tormented you and used you to build herself up... She is dead._ "

Jack was _wildly_ confused. Where was he? Who were these two? Who was the Projectionist and what did it do to get Bendy's wrath? Bendy...

 _Sammy_.

Any wonders of who the evil Alice was were ejected from his mind. Frantic, he reached towards the Alice, trying to get his words out. Only a labored groan escaped him. It morphed into a growl when the Boris barred his path with a Gent pipe. Still, he tried to speak, to voice his worry. He had to find his way back to his sewers! Sammy was probably worried sick!

Despite the interruption, Alice only cast him a concerned glance before going on. " _You are all safe to roam now. And... We are also here to deliver important news: the Ink Demon is dead._ "

Silence hung in the air. Even Jack shut up, baffled. Bendy was a god in the studio. Gods didn't just...die.

Voices clamored over one another with varying levels of coherency, each straining to get their question answered. Will Bendy be coming back? How did he die? Did the human have anything to do with it?

Alice raised her voice, shouting into the megaphone now to be heard. " _Henry, the man who came from outside, laid down his life to kill Bendy. They're both gone._ "

More yelling. Alice frowned just a little and lowered the megaphone. "We should go, Tom. They're getting riled up, but I'm glad they know. Let's go to the next floor and tell them what happened-"

"Sssaa- aaAhhm- mmmee... SaaaAahmmyy-" speaking _hurt_. Would Sammy be okay without his worship? Did he even know?

Alice finally noticed him again. Her brows creased in worry. "...Sammy? The one who worshipped Bendy?" He nodded feverishly, only getting more concerned at the look she gave him. It was pitiful, almost sympathetic. "...he's dead." She looked at the Boris, apparently named Tom, who refused to meet her eyes.

The sound that wrenched itself from his chest was one grief and sorrow. He lowered himself, clutching his head because there was truly nothing he could do. What had happened while he was in the well? Sammy was tough, tougher than anything else he's seen- nothing ever hurt him! Would he be okay when he came out, if at all? The thought of him being unable to claw his way out of the well terrified him.

Alice jumped slightly and even Tom looked unsettled. She knelt beside him and set a wary hand on his shoulder. "Did you... Were you friends?" When he nodded, she stood up and looked at Tom. "We can't just leave him like this. How about you come with us-" she paused and looked back at the rope they'd climbed down from. "....hm." biting the inside of her cheek, she shook her head. _That_ wasn't happening.

Tom pat him lightly on the back as Alice pulled away. "I'm sorry. We can't help you. I hope you find him. He was...killed in the Lost Harbor, if you know where that-"

Anything said after that was forgotten, as he dove into the ink. Lost Harbor. He could find it. The place didn't ring a bell- he had never heard of such a place. But he'd try.

Going through the ink felt like being thrown into a washing machine. Getting more than a few yards could be disorienting, so clawing towards a vaguely defined place was downright nauseating. Maybe he'd find Sammy. He'd reform quickly, right? He was the type of soul to resist the tug of the voices, right?

He burst up in a hallway. Not the town he imagined, but...it was a start. Even without the ability to call his name, he'd find him. How big could the studio really be, anyways?

Crawling through the halls was a nightmarish endeavor. It was slow progress, pushing open doors and looking around. Turning corners provided an anxious worry, not just at the prospect of finding Sammy, but also other potentially hostile creatures. He missed his safe (hopefully still safe) boiler room. And his hat...

"Khkhkh..." Chattering was coming from around a corner. He froze, hands dipping into the ink on reflex. What in the world was that sound? It sounded like _teeth_ -

It was a disgusting creature. Stumbling around the corner was...he didn't know. He's never seen anything like it before. No way would he forget a thing like that, with its head dangling by a rope and a stick speared into its neck. Boney, disgustingly human teeth chattered from the depths of its mouth, lips non-existent to show blackened gums and stained teeth.

 _Nope. Nope, nope. Nope_. He was in the ink the second it startled towards him with outstretched arms.

Should he return to his safe sewers? What had ended him in the first place? He...didn't remember. It was probably still there. He'd wait a while longer, just in case.

He burst out of the ink once more. Once the room stopped spinning around him, he realized it might've once been a theme park.

A mess of a park it was, with scattered parts and tacky attractions that hadn't been reset properly. A couple of searchers milled around, huddled against minigames and walls with a thousand yard stare. They looked oddly somber, with bowed heads and arms tucked in close.

"You here to check on Bertrum?" One asked at seeing him. Dumbfounded, he lied and nodded. He'd never heard of a Bertrum in his life. "I'm sorry. He's gone... We...we think the human tore him apart. You can...see him still. If you want to pay respects."

Well, it'd be weird to not check out this Bertrum fellow. He must've been important to have people mourn him... He decided to head towards the room, and a searcher slunk passed him as he entered. "He was nice," they said, not looking up at him. "He didn't deserve that..."

An octopus ride sat in the center of the room, ruined and leaking ink. Its arms were ripped clean off, the joints loose with nothing holding them together. The room smelt of burnt oil and smoke. If it hadn't been utterly destroyed, he imagined it must've been a grand sight.

A window on one of its sides was open, just barely. An odd, uncomfortable feeling twisted through him as he leaned into the ride's vase to get a closer look. The searcher's words returned to him with new meaning.

_You can see him still._

And see him Jack did. A dead face, pale and swollen. It was a decapitated head, too-large and fish-eyed. The window swung shut and he fell back, letting out a surprised yelp.

Nope. Nope, nope, nope. He didn't want to _exist_ in the same space as the oversized lifeless head. Sorry, Bertrum, but he never wanted to be there ever again.

Back into the ink he went.

How had he not known how expansive and terrifying the studio was? First dark, ink flooded halls. Then a fishing pole monster. And now a twisted, corpse filled theme park ride? He'd really taken his sewers for granted, hadn't he...?

His dwelling wasn't safe anymore. Him in the well in the first place was proof. There was nowhere for him to go. No place was completely safe anymore.

Paranoia gnawed at him. He could feel it now that he let himself- the sheer size of Joey Drew Studios. Pipes twisted through walls like veins, going down, down, down into the heart of the ink machine and stretching up to the furthest corners, pumping dark, toxic life.

So many places that could hold danger. Hostile, wild searchers, or more monsters. If there'd been one evil Alice, there could be more like her...

Nowhere was safe. Anywhere there was ink was a place danger could burst from. In limbo, however, between the walls and in the pipes, nothing could touch him.

It probably wasn't healthy long-term to exist in-between rooms, though, so dangerously close to the well that he could already feel it tugging at him, whispering and closer than it had been a second before.

Bendy was dead. That was what the Alice had said. A place that allowed such a powerful thing to die was a truly dangerous place. Where was he to go?

He had no way of knowing. He just wanted to be away from the bigness of it all, away from the danger.

So he threw himself at a random direction and prayed for safety. Lacking ink, lacking strangers and death. That was all he wanted. He never knew how big an ask that was before.

He peeked out of the puddle wearily. To the left, nothing. To the right, nothing. In front, nothing. Behind, a door. An office. Where he was in the building, he didn't care. Trying the door proved it was locked. Being locked in a random office wasn't so bad as long as nothing outside had the key.

The desk had a space under it. Pushing the chair aside, he found he fit comfortably under it, hidden away. The unknown couldn't touch him there. He didn't have a plan. He'd just sit there and he wouldn't move. The thought of going out there and seeing what happened made his heart seize in icy fear. Pondering what killed his friend and if he'd power through the well made his spirits sink into the pits of despair. Telling himself that Sammy was strong, that he'd never been beaten down before didn't assure him. Whatever did that to him must've been ruthless.

Whatever was out there didn't concern him. As long as it didn't come for him, he'd be fine.


	30. Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of a longer one; I really enjoyed writing this. Enjoy!

Part of Sammy refused to accept what had happened. Even as he limped through the halls, bleeding ink onto the floor, a part of him still fussed over what he'd did wrong.

He'd been a good prophet, hadn't he? He made offerings, tended cutouts, and sang his heart out all in Bendy's name. Was that not enough? Was that not what Bendy wanted? Surely he would've gotten a sign if he wasn't meant to do something...

Where was he even going? Maybe flinging himself blindly through an ink portal was a mistake.

Even if it was, getting away to a new place was nice. Someplace strange and empty. He had gone deep in the studio, deeper than he'd ever ventured before. He would've remembered an elevator...

The moment he stepped in, the gates rattled shut behind him. They creaked and groaned, clacking against the wood and metal. It made him shudder- how did anything work in the studio anymore?

Then it started to descend.

Had he pressed a button? Well, he must've, because there was no other reason for it to be rumbling down. Was his memory failing him that badly? A look at the button panel didn't answer anything. The floor numbers made no sense. K? 11? S? Did it stand for something? Why were so many floors missing? Perhaps he was hallucinating... Bendy's aura alone was enough to make him collapse. Maybe his touch had messed up his vision-

" _Well, well, well, who do we have here...?_ "

Definitely hallucinating. That sounded like Alice Angel- no! No...her voice actor! Who had voiced her? Alice...no, no, it was...

It made his head hurt, so he ignored it. Not thinking too much about Bendy's claws digging into him, about being thrown into a wall and jumped on, being bitten and scratched and unraveling thanks to his cursed aura-

" _Are you not going to answer me? It's rude to leave a lady waiting, you know!_ "

Oh. Right. Mysterious voice. Looking around, he saw no place where it could be coming from. Rubbing his head, he leaned against the corner. "I'm sorry, I..." Vertigo nearly took him down right there, and he fell against the tough wooden corner of the elevator. It banged against his arm and he saw stars, slumping to his knees.

" _Oh, my, careful! You're quite hurt! What happened to you?_ "

The mere thought of telling her what happened felt like blasphemy. Like he would be telling a lie, slandering the Ink Demon. He heard everything. If he heard him, he might come back and finish the job.

The voice said nothing. Sammy took a deep breath and gripped the wall. Breathing was useless, but comforting. Rhythmic, even, if he put effort into it. In and out. Don't fall into a puddle. Focus on breathing

He tried, but couldn't bring himself to speak. Words refused to leave him. His throat felt like it was closing up, and even trying to fake breathing was pointless. What would he even say?

Bendy nearly killed him?

He disappointed his god?

He wasn't good enough?

"...betrayed. I was betrayed. Abandoned." _That_ was it. Those words, as much as they sickened him to say, encompassed his feelings. It wasn't his fault. He did his best. If he told himself that enough, maybe he'd believe it.

He really did... Wasn't it enough?

" _Ah. Trust is a delicate thing here, isn't it?_ " The voice hummed. The elevator clicked to a stop and the gates shuddered open. " _Take your time to get it out. I can hear you just fine._ "

Hesitating just a moment, Sammy questioned his situation. "Who...who are you?" He struggled to walk out. Lord, he was so tired. Part of him didn't want to leave the elevator, just in case the Ink Demon returned to snatch his life. But he limped out anyways.

" _Why, I'm an angel!_ " Her voice turned high and familiar. It was Alice Angel, alright. It made a weird amount of sense in his mind. There was a demon, of course there had to be an angel. He'd never questioned why only Bendy existed before. " _Alice Angel! Who may you be name?_ "

"The proph- I mean... Sammy." He shuddered, a thick strand of ink slipping off him. It stuck to the wall when he pulled his hand away. It'd been a long time since he uttered his own name. He'd always been the prophet, one and only, and he'd taken pride in that unique title. Not so much anymore. His real name felt foreign on his tongue, so he said it again. "Sammy Lawrence." Better.

The voice- Alice- didn't respond. He wondered if he should trust her. She's done nothing to harm him. If he still trusted Bendy, would he have instantly hated the opposite of him? He didn't know what he'd do, and that made his stomach churn. He hated being unsure of things. How could he not answer such a simple question about his own morals?

" _...may I inquire on why you wear that mask?_ "

"Ah...that." he ran his fingers across it. The material- hard wood, practically fossilized in ink- was rough and familiar. Just touching it put him at ease. It was so...calming. It made him _him_. It labeled him as Bendy's loyal prophet, though now that label felt I'll deserved. Even after he'd been beaten within an inch of his life...the thought of taking it off repulsed him. "...comfort."

" _It's rather creepy._ "

Was it? He almost felt bad about it. Almost. Feeling the sides of it, the curve of its horns between his thumb and forefinger, touching the edge of the mouth hole he'd punched out, it was all comforting. "...I'm not taking it off. I-I'm s-" His voice broke halfway through his apology, catching in his throat and coming out a choked cough.

Gripping the wall, he nearly threw up. Nothing came up, but for a moment he feared he'd fall into the well right then and there. He lost feeling in his own body for just a second.

" _Oh dear! I've only seen damage that bad caused by the Ink Demon!_ " Alice sounded worried, like a mother fussing over her kid, who just fell out of a tree she told them not to climb. " _Is that what happened?_ "

Hearing his title spoken brought back the fiasco. He could almost see his lanky, skeletal form prying itself through the wall, heaving and lunging towards him. Again he was falling apart, collapsing to his knees and begging for mercy. "...yes. He did this to me." Croaking it out felt surprisingly...good. Getting a weight off his chest. The memory seemed further away.

Without waiting for a reply, he went on. "I- I did everything for him! I prayed! I sang songs! I wrote music in his name! I even... I even had a sacrifice!" Hysterical, he began to laugh. He doubled over and _cackled_ , letting his twisted, knotted together feelings out. "He killed- I'd tied him up and- he could've stopped me! I did it for him! I...did it... He said- I wanted to be free..."

When had he fallen down? He was on his hands and knees now, the wood under his hands becoming damp with ink. Heaving, he sat back, staring up at nothing. Was he crying? He couldn't tell- his everything was loose and sticking to his clothes and his mask stuck his face, ink gluing everything together and yet sloughing off of him all at once. "He said I'd be free..."

" _Hold yourself together, Sammy. You are a very strong man. Not many souls walk away from the Ink Demon, let alone walk away sane._ " Alice's voice was stern yet...soft. She sounded confident. " _Get up. You're safe from him here._ "

"He hears everything." With a soft groan, he pulled himself up. Lots of falling over and loosing balance couldn't be a good sign. The room spun and each step sent dull pain through his knees. He didn't know it was possible for ink to ache and become sore. "Nowhere is safe from him. I'm not safe here! I..." He trailed off with a shudder. "Nowhere is safe..."

" _Continue into my domain. We'll see about that._ "

And he did. He almost tripped over himself, but he managed to keep from falling apart just enough to limp into a new area. Alice hummed. Its tune stirred a long-buried memory in the back of his mind.

"Your voice is beautiful." It came out in a croak, weak and strained.

She giggled. " _Why, thank you, Sammy!_ " Hearing his name said aloud made him feel...something. Something warm. " _Ah, take a turn here. You see that?_ "

"....yes. That's a box. I'm assuming you're talking about the box." And it definitely raised questions. He's never seen anything like it before. The words _Little Miracle Station_ were emblazoned on the top. "...what is it?"

" _You've never seen a miracle station before?_ "

"A _what_?" By how shocked Alice sound, whatever that was was common knowledge. "I'm not exactly from here, Angel." Calling her Alice felt too informal. She held herself highly and was knowledgeable- she deserved respect.

" _Oh, they're something I came up with myself! Blessed by my angel magic~!_ " A light laugh. " _The Ink Demon_ hates _it! Can't get past it! Perfect for hiding in a pinch. A few of these are around here..._ "

"He... You can fight back against him?"

" _....yes, to an extant. Granted, we hate each other, so he doesn't come here often. But when he does, it's good to have a few safe spaces he can't get into, isn't it- ...Sammy?_ "

The Ink Demon... _wasn't_ all-powerful? There were places he couldn't touch. Alice was...dare he say, rather powerful to be able to do such a thing! To counter Bendy...

What a way to kick everything he's known. His whole faith relied on Bendy being unshakable, of him being unstoppable. "You're...very powerful, miss Angel." His voice came out meek and squeaky as the realization of Alice's power dawned on him. "A-and kind. Very kind, for...putting up with me."

" _Oh, you make me blush! You seem like a kind soul. Care to tell me about yourself? You might as well stay a while, now that you're here._ "

...he would stay, he decided. Just to gather himself. When was the last time someone's been interested in him? Bendy didn't exactly _directly_ talk to him. "I..." Where to start? Maybe not with the worship of a false god that absorbed his days, weeks, _months_. Yeah, not a good place to start. "...I'm a musician."

" _Oh...?_ "

"I don't remember much more than the fact I was the music director. I write music and I can play many types of instruments." It felt good to say. Music grounded him, and just talking about it made his trauma feel just a little further away for the time being. "Piano, drum, cello, violin, banjo..." He debated delving in further about all the songs he remembered and how the banjo was his favorite and how he taught himself to adapt with four fingers...but he held back.

" _A man of many talents, I see! I believe I have a piano around here...if you'd like to play._ "

"I'd love to!" He bit his tongue and lowered his voice, casting a glance over his shoulder as if Bendy would pop out at any moment. A cold shiver ran up his spine. "I mean... Yes. I can play for you."

Alice let out another one of those soft laughs. He was making someone _laugh_. Someone was _appreciating_ him. It was a drug, her voice, her attention. He wanted to make her even happier, to earn more praise.

And so she guided him to where a piano might be.

" _Do you want to know what the Demon did to me?_ "

Well, _now_ he did. "If you don't mind sharing."

" _He sent me to the puddles. It was hell. Countless voices, nothing but_ screaming _. He's a manipulative, lying monster. He betrayed me, as he'd betrayed you. I came out a puss-filled, shapeless slug. I had to claw my way to where I am now. Becoming an angel is no easy task._ " Her voice deepened, almost distorting. Was that an echo, he heard?

She must have a wonderfully unique singing voice.

" _I carved out my safe territory. One day, I'll achieve perfection. I'm so close to being perfect. Only then, I'll ascend to my rightful place_."

"Heaven?"

" _Yes... What do you think that looks like? I like to imagine green, rolling fields..._ "

He sighed, no longer paying mind to where he was going. When was the last time he's had a conversation? Imagined color? Oh, how he missed color...

"I think it's sunny. Very bright." Was yellow his favorite color? Yes, it was. So bright and happy. The studio had drops of it in the lights here and there. He missed other colors, too, like blue and red, but he realized he missed natural sunlight the most. Thinking about it ached.

" _Do you want to know how I've achieved perfection?_ "

"I am curious."

" _You're almost there. Keep going._ " Her voice came out in a shaky, high-pitched whisper. " _It took so many of them to make me beautiful... Anything less than perfect was left behind_."

He didn't have to wonder what that meant for long.

Stepping through a doorway, he found himself in a cemetery. Boris, so many Boris, were strapped to tables. Their chests were ripped open and ribs cracked outwards. Their hearts were gone. Butcher Gang clones were strung up like party favors, nailed high up against support beams or thrown into the ink like trash.

Whatever he'd expected hadn't been this. Coming face to face with his morals wasn't what he expected. The failed cartoons lacked a soul and we're never people, as far as he was aware. Was it okay to kill them? To rip them apart and strip them of the ability to return to the ink? Each and every single one was missing a heart, hollowed out like a pumpkin carved out to become a jack-o'-lantern.

" _I'm putting them out of their misery._ " Alice said bitterly. Disgust was clear in her tone. " _They were violent and tried to get their tainted ink on me. They could've pulled me back!_ " Her voice cracked and echoed.

He was in awe. In a grotesque, morbid way, it fascinated him. Stepping carefully, more sure of his footing than before, he leaned closer to the one closest to him.

They weren't perfect, she'd said. As he looked closer at the bodies, he began to notice those imperfections. A too-short nose, lopsided ears, more ribs on one side than the other, or too many freckles; each of the Boris were flawed in some way, some more noticeable than others. She had an eye for detail.

" _Was that too much? I'm sorry if it was, I had assumed you weren't squeamish-_ "

"Oh, I... I'm not very squeamish." And that surprised him. Cartoon gore was different than getting mauled himself. They weren't him. He found he didn't care for them. They lacked souls- they weren't alive. Everything was different, knowing they were all made of ink and no longer flesh and blood. "I was just surprised, that's all. This is quite a lot... You must be very beautiful."

" _I am, Sammy. I'm almost perfect. Almost._ " She sighed quietly. " _I wanted to show you this, since you'll be staying a while. I knew you'd understand. Now let's find that piano, shall we? Return to the lift."_

Right, he was going to play for her. He nodded and turned around, going back to the elevator. "What song do you want me to play?"

" _What song do you think I'd like?_ "

He found himself smiling. Despite what she'd showed him, despite how he should've been horrified and disgusted... He liked it there. Safe, away from Bendy, and with someone who asked about him and seemed to enjoy talking with him. With someone striving towards a goal, who worked hard to get where she was. "Your debut song, I'd imagine. Oh, I remember writing it over and over until it was just right..." A sigh left him, light and happy. "If I recall correctly, it was called _I'm Alice Angel_? It's...played on the piano. Did you plan that?"

" _Hehe...maybe._ "

Amused, he stepped into the elevator. He just had to remember how to play the short tune. It was so simple yet bouncy. It was meant to be played only on the piano, to keep the attention on Alice's singing and provide support to her lovely voice. Hopefully he could still play it with that same energy.

"I'm enjoying your company very much, m-" he tripped over his words, stuck between saying "my Lord" and "Angel" and actually stammering out "...my Angel." He cleared his throat and prayed she didn't catch it.

She laughed. Despite it being such a lovely, light-hearted laugh, it made him dread her response even more. Would she be mad? Find it weird? " _You can call me that if you'd like. It's...flattering._ "

He let out a breath and nodded, greatly relieved. The elevator shuddered to a stop and the gates opened slowly. Level 9, he noted, and stepped out. With a start, he realized he was walking just fine. He wasn't falling apart or dizzy. His steps, while slow as always, didn't stumble and the limp was didn't hurt as much as it did before.

"I...feel better. Thank you, my Angel." Saying that again felt wonderful. He hadn't even noticed the pain fading until it was already gone. "Really...thank you, from the bottom of my heart."

" _Why, you're welcome! I'm glad to see you better!_ "

She _cared_. She was _glad_ to see him recovering. Bendy had never acknowledged him, let alone worried about his health. Bendy just sulked around. She actually had proof of her power, and could counter the Demon's influence. She worked hard to get where she was and was brilliant enough to use the cartoons to make herself perfect. Alice was...there wasn't a word grand enough to describe her.

" _Right behind that door should be the piano. It should be unlocked._ "

It was. A microphone hung in the corner. Against the opposite wall sat a dusty piano. Sitting on the bench, he tested the keys. "Hm... It needs to be tuned. Please give me a moment."

It was like he was back in the music department again, back at his old routine. Check every instrument, keep them tuned and cleaned. He prided himself in consistency. Tuning the piano made everything seem more normal and right, as it should be. Playing for someone...it gave it a new, special touch.

The first few notes played without a hitch. Smiling like an idiot to himself, he sat back down on the bench and stretched his hands, mulling over how he'd have to play with right fingers instead of ten. He should be fine. "Perfect. Are you ready?"

" _Mhm._ "

He poured his soul into the performance. All his newfound admiration, fascination, and awe towards Alice went into the song.

" _I'm the cutest little angel, sent from above, and I know just how to swing..._ "

To his surprise, she began to sing. Her voice was just as beautiful as he'd imagined. It was Alice Angel herself, singing her heart out. He didn't falter and kept playing.

" _I've got a bright light halo, and I'm filled with love... I'm Alice Angel!_

" _I'm the hit of the party, I'm the belle of the ball, I'm the toast of every town..._ "

He let his eyes close for a moment to appreciate her voice, letting his fingers move naturally across the keys. Thirty years of practicing paid off well.

The song eventually lulled down to a stop. The last note rang out, soft and drawn-out. His fingers hovered over the keys, and he half-expected another song to be requested.

" _That was beautiful. You're quite talented, Samuel. Thank you for that._ " There was a beat of silence before she spoke again, quieter. " _You didn't deserve to be ripped apart by that demon._ "

He looked down at himself, pulling his hands to his lap. He could almost feel the mood of the room shift and darken. "...no I... I didn't deserve that."

" _You deserve better. How about you stay with me here? There's_ so _much to do and the Ink Demon never comes around. You can be safe._ "

He didn't respond for a long while, starting to mess with his mask again. Was he seriously going to consider abandoning all he was used to?

" _It's quite alright if you need to think about it. Take your time._ " She sounded...rather sad- her voice was softer, almost a whisper at the end. If he decided to leave her...well, she'd be all alone again. Alice was too kind to be left alone, without someone to talk to.

"...give me time." Delaying it made guilt twist in his stomach, but he told himself it wouldn't be long. He just had to come to terms with it all. Familiarize himself with the Angel's territory. He was just delaying the inevitable.

Pushing himself to his feet, he asked, "Would it be alright to wander? I need to...think."

"Go on ahead."

He stepped out of the piano room and took a deep breath. Drumming his hand against the edge of his mask, he picked a random direction and strode off. Alice was an incredible woman, she really was...but could he stay there indefinitely?

He could. She was almost...supernatural, as silly as the term was in the context of Joey Drew Studios. Despite everything, he's never seen anything like her. How could she control the elevator remotely? She knew the land like the back of her hand. Her voice came from nowhere and yet everywhere. It was by all means terrifying but also...godlike. Ethereal. She was truly something incredible.

The sight of a Bendy cutout startled him out of his thoughts.

That sick, broad grin mocked him, souring his mood. It leaned against a wall, motionless and lame, but it unsettled him on a new, primal level. Oh how abhorrent it was, mimicking the false god that ripped him apart.

He _hated_ it. Without thinking, he reached out and grabbed it. He kicked it hard and a leg snapped off. He punched it and its head splintered off, its smile fractured.

How dare Bendy betray him? He trusted him. He gave him _everything_. And what did he get in return? _Nothing_. He gave and he gave all he had to give and Bendy did nothing but _take_.

If he were human he might've had teared up out of frustration. But he wasn't, he was trapped in an inky hell and Bendy was never really going to free him. He led him astray and had him set up for _slaughter_. Letting out a frustrated growl, he beat the cutout into splinters, smashing it against the wall and hitting it until wood shards dug into his hands-

_Drip._

_Drip._

Droplets of ink splashed to the wood below. Opening his fist, he saw sticky webs of ink between his fingers and palm. Sawdust stuck to his ink, drawn against the strings itching against him. "...oh no."

A dull heartbeat began to throb in his head. It was rhythmic, faint but growing closer. Looking down at the shattered cutout, he realized his mistake. A thin layer of ink stuck to the floor, swirling and growing darker and thicker by the second.

" _He doesn't like when you do that. Run, Sammy._ "

And run he did.

To the best of his ability, anyways. He wasn't fast at all and could only take long strides away from the thumping pulse of the Ink Demon. He tripped over the rumpled bottom of his pants and almost fell before something caught his eye.

A miracle station, tucked against the wall. He made a beeline towards it without question. After getting beaten the first time, his body was destabilizing quicker, falling apart much faster now despite his will begging him to keep himself together-

He flung the creaky door open and threw himself in, holding it shut. It was a little cramped and the horns of his wretched mask scraped against the top, but the pros far outweighed the con.

The second the door shut, he couldn't feel the Demon's aura anymore. It couldn't reach him inside. The box was free of his ink and almost immediately he stopped dripping. Ink dripped down it from outside, falling past the window and sliding down it as if it was smooth glass. The whiplash was so sudden he could've cried.

Peering out of the little window, he could see the Ink Demon limping along. He looked at the remains of the cutout for only a moment before shuffling past. For a moment, his heart seized in his chest when Bendy looked right at him. Even though he lacked eyes, he felt he was staring into his sinful, wandering soul. Slipping a hand under his mask, he clamped it over his mouth to keep from making a peep. He couldn't look away, though, frozen. He wanted to look away, to hide and cower.

What if the Angel had been lying? What if the boxes were useless and Bendy could still get him? What was he thinking, blindly believing her?! He had no defences other than a thin wooden door. What if-

The demon made a sound similar to a grunt and turned away. He watched, stunned, as Bendy slunk into the wall. Ink was sucked back towards him or drained into nothing. The shadows were chased away as he disappeared.

It was as if nothing had ever happened. The lights brightened, the cutout remained shredded albeit scattered, wood shards clotted together in excess ink, and Sammy felt like he was going to pass out. He stood there for longer than he needed to, fearful that the moment he'd open the door, Bendy would return angrier than ever-

" _...you can come out now. He's gone now._ "

Lowering his hand and letting out a broken whimper, he stumbled out of the miracle station blindly. Every part of him was shaking. Almost without thinking, he slipped off his mask. He couldn't even look at it, at its horrid face, scuffed from years of use. His hands shook as he gripped it tight.

He threw it as hard as he could. It clattered across the tile floor, facedown. He wanted nothing to do with it. It made him sick to his stomach. How could he wear it, after all Bendy had done to him?

As if possessed, he fell to his knees, clasping his hands above his head. He shook all over, wracked with tearless, breathless cries. "Forgive me for my careless wrath, my Angel, I was blind to ever trust the Ink Demon! I hate him!" Saying it thrilled him in a taboo kind of way, filling him with a euphoric, giddy glee. " _I hate him!_ I want him dead! I will stay here with you, my Angel! I will serve you! Do whatever you wish!"

_Please don't let him wander astray._

_Please don't let Bendy hurt him again._

He didn't know how else to love, how else to express his raw gratitude. He'd worship her like he worshipped Bendy but with renewed heart and effort. She'd saved him.

" _Oh, my- calm_ _down, Sammy. Of course I'll let you...serve me. Yes, you can serve me. You are full of potential. You are safe here._ "

He believed her wholeheartedly. She appreciated him. Her attention made him feel alive, feel wanted in a fresh, unique way. He could bear being without a purpose. He needed a purpose, a thing to strive for. A dream. Hope for change, for something better.

He was such a fool, and yet he was given a second chance. Perhaps he'd worshipped the wrong thing at first, but he wouldn't make that mistake again. Alice was truly an angel.

"Is there anything I can do for you? Anything at all? I can play another song." He could talk to her. He could actually ask and be told what he could do. No longer would he interpret what plagued his nightmares and run like a chicken without its head. Communication was foreign and he loved it dearly.

" _There's no need for that... Hm... How convenient, there is actually something very important you can do for me._ "

He was on his feet in an instant, shaking with barely contained excitement. His heart was in his throat and he was almost nauseous with excitement. "Anything."

" _I see a stranger has entered my domain... I can see him now, wandering, lost... He will arrive here soon. He has something I want._ " Her voice turned sour. " _And I need you to get it before he steals it away._ "

A stranger? That sounded like the sacrifice. Did he feel bad for trying to get him killed? Even with hindsight, he found he didn't. If his Angel wanted the man to be robbed, then so be it. He'd gladly to it. He'd kill the man if he had to. "A...stranger. Yes. Yes, I'll get whatever it is you request. What does he have?"

" _Bring me his Boris._ "


	31. Free Day [The More, the Merrier]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the last day already, huh? Thanks to Halfusek for providing us with the Ink Demonth, you're seriously great. This has been such a fun challenge to take on. Hope you all enjoy day 31!

There was a short burst of static and hands clasped under Henry's shoulders, just barely saving him from collapsing.

"Henry! Are you alright?" Sammy looked over his shoulder and backtracked, tone laced with thinly veiled concern. Boris was at his side in an instant, looking him over. "You're lagging behind. Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine. Sorry, I'm just a little tired." He found his footing and Norman let him go. He rubbed his eyes and let out a deep sigh. "I haven't slept much this loop, but I'll last."

"I forgot humans needed sleep," Sammy said idly, turning to survey the mess that was Bendy Hell. Having the same idea, Boris darted off, picking apart miscellaneous sandbags or other items that could be used as a bed. "This place seems safe. I'm sure sleeping couldn't hurt. How long do you need to sleep? A couple hours at most?"

"...do you not sleep, Sammy?" He'd wondered before, but only now did he realize he could get answers. Plus, he could deter Sammy from making him actually rest.

"Not in the old sense, I'm afraid not." He shrugged as if it were no big deal and motioned to a bench Boris had uncovered. "We'll turn the haunted house's power on while you're out."

"No you won't. You all are staying right here. I haven't briefed you on...the rest..." He trailed off and once again Norman practically picked him up, not trusting him to stand. "You don't know what you're getting into. A-and, please put me down, Norman..."

 _Let's let Henry sleep,_ Boris signed, and Henry rubbed the bridge of his nose in exasperation. Norman nodded in agreement, much to his distaste, and dragged him over.

Despite his grumbling, he sat down. "I'm not going to sleep just yet. We still have a lot to do, and all three of you are wanted dead or will be wanted dead. Especially you, Boris." Personally, he was shocked Bendy hadn't come to rip Sammy apart. He didn't trust Norman straying too far in case Bendy decided to kill him off in time with the fourth lever. "None of you are leaving my sight."

 _Can't watch us if you're asleep,_ Norman signed. _One of us can stay with you if you're worried._

 _It's not me I'm worried about,_ was his response. Leaning against the back of the bench, he sighed and closed his eyes. Just for a moment. Just to get his bearings and recollect his...

"...he fell asleep."

Making a noise akin to a snort of laughter, Boris laid Henry down so he'd be more comfortable. The man didn't stir. Spotting a sheet draped nearby, Boris snatched it and laid it over him. He stepped back. Perfect.

They looked at each other. _Are we turning the power on?_ Norman asked, and Sammy nodded. He looked down at a wire that snaked across the floor. He began to follow it, only casting one look back before heading off.

"Boris, will you be alright on your own?" Sammy asked. Boris nodded and saluted him, skipping off to follow a different wire without a care in the world. With a sigh, Sammy left to find a wire of his own to follow.

* * *

The first lever had already been completed by Henry when they first arrived, leaving three left. Sammy was heading towards the second one. He eyed the strength tester blocking his path, looked down at himself, and wondered how hard it could possibly be to beat a rigged game.

The rubber mallet wasn't as heavy as he thought it'd be. He raised it over his shoulder and slammed it down, the bounce of it jolting up his arm. It squeaked upon contact and the indicator shot up...

...and didn't hit the bell.

A little huff of indignation left him. "Oh, come on..." The door he had to get through was still shut. He rolled his shoulders back and stretched, internally hyping himself up. Widening his stance, he raised the mallet again for a second try. He was going to kick whoever decided that completing games to get into each room was a good idea.

He slammed it down so hard it bounced back at hit him in the face.

_Ding!_

The mallet fell from his hands and hit the floor with a squeak. Wincing, he took his mask off. Strands of ink stuck to it thanks to effectively getting pancaked against his face. "Ow." He looked over at the door. Much to his relief, it was shuddering open. He still swore to kick whoever decided the rigged games were mandatory.

He darted right through, itching to get the lever and pull it down already. Sadly, though, his quest wouldn't be as easy as he hoped it would be. Nothing ever was.

The doorway opened up into a balcony. Below, squabbling and bumbling around pointlessly, was the Butcher Gang. Lined atop the banister were several empty cans of bacon soup. To him, looked like the setup to a bad joke.

He picked up a can, leaning over to get a good look at the creatures. Was it really that easy? It couldn't be. Yet when he threw the can, they all yelped and stumbled over each other to get to it.

It really was that easy, then. Picking up a couple more cans, he quietly made his way down the stairs. A second can was thrown, clattering loudly, and the gang beelined towards it. He smiled under his mask and went on his way. _What idiots._

The hall he stepped into curved slightly and a lost one was weeping from within a gated off room. They were hunched over, knees pulled up to their chest, and shaking like a leaf. How welcoming.

He paused to look at them, debating alerting the poor thing of his presence, before lightly tapping the chickenwire. "Hello." They didn't look up. If anything, they just curled up tighter.

Well, the folk here were just peachy, weren't they?

He continued on. The hall opened up to a room. It looked like a workshop, with an audio log surrounded by scrap on one desk. On another desk lay the worst hunk of metal he's seen in his life.

Cut in half, with strands of ink moving and pulsing between it as if it were trying to pull itself back together, lay a Bendy animatronic. It looked like an ink bomb went off- it was _everywhere_. One of its arms was missing and the black sludge was coming from the empty socket.

"What a way to realize I have a fear of animatronics. That's truly unholy," he grumbled under his breath, looking away from the unsettling thing. Tucking the audio log under one arm for later, he turned right around and pulled down the lever. "Glad I'll never have to see _you_ again."

When he looked over his shoulder, he swore it had moved just a little, and was looking at him.

He hurried out of the room, throwing the last soup can without looking to see where it landed. He couldn't wait to get out of there. Hopefully the other two were done, and he could tell them all about that horrid thing. Despite that, it had gone much smoother than he'd ex-

A cold, metal hand settled on his shoulder, and Sammy's newfound phobia of animatronics got ten times worse. Yelling louder and more high-pitched than he'd ever admit, he jumped away and flung the audio log at it. It clacked against its soulless, smiling face and nearly knocked it over. It stood on wobbly legs, held together in a sick mistake of life, metal, and ink.

The Butcher Gang heard that. The Striker was first to scuttle towards them, pulling back its metallic fist in preparation. Swearing under his breath over his inability to move faster than a light jog, Sammy backed away. If he just got out, he'd be fine. He'd get to the others and away from the abomination.

The animatronic whistled a flat note and punted the Striker into the ground. The other two gang looked at each other, as if unsure. Its remaining arm reached out towards him- the other shoulder leaked ink that dripped and stuck to its middle. Lurching with every step, it continued on a beeline to him.

It was almost comical, since nobody in the room could run very fast. Sammy was first to the stairs, though, and scrambled up as fast as he could manage. The animatronic followed, almost tripping over the first step, and gripped the banister to balance itself. The wood splintered under its strength.

It whistled louder and kicked out, tripping him up and overtaking him. Before he could dare scream and alert anyone, it looped its arm under his mask and clamped it over his mouth.

* * *

 _Attraction Storage_ , the sign read. Norman didn't recall any rides from when he was the projectionist, lowercase p, but then again he didn't remember most things. Even then, an amusement park in an animation studio was unusual. He thought it was, at least.

The narrow halls were rather pleasant to him. He could see everything. Much to his displeasure, vocalize by a static hum, the hall opened up to a dome-shaped room filled with all manner of items and patterns.

In the middle sat an octopus ride. He didn't know what he was expecting, honestly.

Did he like amusement parks? No. Probably not. The thought of being thrown down a glorified ladder in a shopping cart didn't appeal to him. Too many people, too many things to keep track of. So many things to think about...

Lever. Right. Probably not a good idea to forget why he walked into the wretched room in the first place.

He walked past the audio log,only stopping to consider it before setting it back down. No point in listening to it, after all. He'd have to pick it up before he left. Now, where was that lever...?

Ah, there, in the opposite corner of the cursed room. Skirting past the ride, he stepped towards it. The room had a frankly unnecessary amount of things in it. What a headache.

Eager to get out already, he pushed the lever down. The place unnerved him and he didn't know why. It was just a ride. Nothing special to it.

He hesitated when passing the desk the audio log sat on. Doing a double-take, he leaned in closer. The tape on the inside was spinning. Was it...playing? On its own? Did he press it for some reason and not remember? It was entirely possible, but yet...

Movement in his peripherals caught his attention. Looking up, he saw the ride begin to _move_. Steam huffed out between joints, the arms picked themselves you like clawed hands. Dull vibrations of carts clunking against the earth rattled up his legs. Lights around its base turned on. Its front panel swung open.

Oh. That's a human head.

Rightfully shrieking like it was nobody's business, he blindly backed up and ran, dodging an arm when it crashed down onto the desk and shattered it. The spinning was making him dizzy, and the blur of lights and depth and textures all around him _really_ wasn't helping. 

He almost didn't feel the arm hit him in the side. Pain made his light flicker and his speaker burn with the noise it was making. His scream cut off when he hit the wall at full speed.

* * *

Boris was happy his task was so easy.

He just walked right into Maintenance and shuffled through the ink. Sure, it was uncomfortable, but he was pretty durable for a cartoon! Having proper shoes and pants really helped. He pulled a lever that lifted up the pallette blocking the stairs in no time at all, and there to the lever was smoothe sailing. He even got an audio log from mister Drew himself!

He was doing so good. And Sammy thought he couldn't handle it by himself! Ah, he'll show him. He couldn't help but smile to himself as he returned up the first flight of stairs, ready to meet up with the others and show them what he'd found.

His excitement quickly dampened, however, when a heartbeat not his own began to thud in his ears.

At least the miracle station was right there, right? He was quick to fling himself in and hold the door shut, hugging the audio log close to his chest like a comfort toy. The drumming in his ears grew louder and harsher alongside his own racing heart.

A moment later, Bendy lurched into view.

The demon tilted his head side to side. He stepped in front of the miracle station and turned slowly to stare down into the inky pit that was maintenance. Even slower, he turned to stare Boris in the eye.

He could actually _hear_ Bendy's bones cracking as he crouched so they were eye to ink. His grin seemed to stretch wider, yet remained as fake as ever. Ever so slightly, he shook his head. His gloved hand came into view and waggled in the universal sign of _no_.

And with that, Bendy straightened up, turned, and limped back where he came from. The heartbeat faded and his inky aura faded to nothing.

Boris stood in the miracle station for a long moment, silently wishing he never had to deal with that ever again. _So much for being easy_ , he thought, as he threw open the door and stumbled out. He ran right into Bendy Land with his fur standing on end.

A thin whine escaped his throat. He ran back towards Henry, vowing to not leave the safety of his side until the others returned.

He skidded to a halt at Henry's side and shook him awake, setting the audio log on the floor. He looked around for the others, part of him still fussing that Bendy could return, and shook him awake.

"Huh...? Boris? Something wrong...?"

He just whined and wrapped his arms around him. Confused and groggy, Henry sat up and hugged him back. In his arms, he suddenly stiffened up. "Uh, buddy... Who's that?"

He turned around to see what Henry was on about. Staggering into view was.. was that a walking Bendy animatronic? It held Sammy in a chokehold and was practically dragging him by the neck. It stopped dead at the sight of them and dropped the ex-prophet like a bag of bricks.

"I rest for _five minutes_ and the animatronic starts moving? What did you do? Where's Norman?!" As if on cue, a familiar shriek rang out from elsewhere far away. Henry turned in the direction of the scream. " _Is he fighting Bertrum_?!" Boris didn't know what that meant, but it didn't sound good.

The animatronic lopped away on an uneven gait, trailing ink as it went. A panel on its back was broke open to show something dark and pulsating within, thick veins of ink spreading out and connecting to the thick ink holding its spine together. It headed straight towards Attraction Storage, whistling a choppy tune as it went.

Norman's scream cut off abruptly, which was _definitely_ not a good thing. Boris helped Sammy to his feet, just as alarmed as Henry was, and within moments all three were stumbling after the suddenly alive animatronic. It was as if it no longer saw them, and was dead set on making it to Bertrum.

"Henry, what is that?!" Sammy hissed, as they rounded the corner and chased the thing into Bertrum's room.

"I don't know! It's never moved before! Just get him away from Bertrum before they kill each other!" They stopped. Steam poured from the ride and fogged the ceiling. Norman was somehow standing, digging his heels into the ground and gripping a cart like his life depended on it. Every fiber of his being was shaken taut, and his speaker was quiet. One of the wires leading out of it was severed and a gash in his side bled ink. They were at a rough stalemate, but Bertrum was slowly pushing him back. "Oh my god he's actually holding his ground."

If Norman saw him, he wasn't showing it. He was completely focused on not getting mowed over, and Bertrum was focused on trying to spin and overpower him. Even though Norman was being pushed back inch by inch, he wasn't falling or stumbling. His light flickered and smoke was clouding around the projector's vents.

Abruptly, the ride switched directions. The animatronic was nearly taken out, ducking at the last moment with a shrill cry. The arms slammed into Norman from behind and sent him sprawling.

The animatronic stood in front of Bertrum's face, waving its only hand frantically. It whistled in short, loud chirps and anxiously bounced from one leg to the other.

"What's-" Sammy began, but Boris shushed him. They watched as the ride's arms lowered slowly. Bertrum's gaze was locked on the animatronic.

"Um... Hello. Are you calmed down?" Henry spoke up, hesitating a moment before stepping closer. He lifted Norman by the arm. His light flickered and he tugged his arm free to just lie there on his side, trickles of ink bleeding into the floor. "...thank you for not killing Norman."

"The amusement park ride tried to kill Norman and the robot tried to kill me. Got anything to say about that?!" Sammy snipped, pointedly glaring the animatronic down. It pointed at his face and then drew a line across its neck. He made an offended sound and placed a hand over his heart, taking an overly dramatic step back. "See?? It wants to kill me!"

"Nobody's killing each other!" Henry held up his hands. "...who are you?" He looked over at the animatronic. "I...haven't seen you before."

It tilted its head. Writing in the air, it spelled out a name.

_LACIE_

"Lacie? Lacie...Benton, right?" He couldn't help but snort at the irony. Seeing the confused on Boris and Sammy's faces, he elaborated, "Oh, she hated the animatronic. I'm sorry you ended up like this." He said sincerely.

She stared him down. Henry rubbed the back of his neck, looking away from the animatronic's dark, lightness eyes. "Um... I'll explain more. If you'd like."

"Time loop." Sammy muttered, and Boris nodded. "Guessing he's never met _you_ before."

Norman pried himself off the ground, swaying, and lurched towards Bertrum with outstretched hands. Henry steered him away and helped him up, having to physically hold him in place when he jumped at the sight of Lacie.

" _Nobody is killing anyone._ Okay, okay. Let me explain. I'm Henry," he signed alongside his explanation. "That's Sammy. That's Boris. This is Norman. This may sound unbelievable, but trust me when I say that I'm stuck in a loop, and I've gone through this studio hundreds of times."

Lacie let out a clipped sound. She- well, she tried to cross her arms, but since she was missing one it didn't work well. But her doubt was clear.

"I can prove it. However you want. Course, now that I've messed it up, I can't answer everything about what happens here on out. But I know that Bertrum activates at the end of his audio log. I can recite it from memory, too, and I haven't even heard it this loop." He shrugged. Lacie looked up at Bertrum before turning back at him and nodding.

He cleared his throat and put on a mock Bertrum voice. " _The biggest park ever built. A centrefold of attractions. Each one more grand than the one before it. It makes my eyes come to tears at the thought-_ "

The ride rattled and Lacie waved him off, looking them over. She seemed to be judging them all, going over them each one be one. A thin scowl at Norman, a tilt of the head at Henry, and curious drone at Boris, and a broken note at Sammy. He stuck out his tongue and crossed his arms.

"It's like I'm babysitting a bunch of toddlers..." Henry sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He pat Boris on the shoulder. "At least you didn't anger someone and nearly get murdered."

He gave a sheepish smile and shrank away from his touch, too guilty to accept it.

"...who did you tick off?"

_Ink Demon._

"Boris!" He groaned softly, shaking his head. "Of course. Well. You're all fine. None of you are dead. That's better than the last couple hundred cycles." He motioned to Bertrum. "Glad you're alive, too. The more, the merrier."

Lacie wrapped her arms around one of Bertrum's arms in a hug, shaking her head at the implication of Bertrum dying. The machine rattled under her, perhaps just as displeased and trying to show it.

"We're getting out of here." Sammy said firmly. "I'm guessing you're joining us. Lacie can, at least."

"You're welcome to come along with us." Henry offered his hand to her. "We're going through the haunted house. After that... I don't know. But we'll stick together until we find a way out of here and find a way to get you all back to normal.

She looked at his hand, then up at Bertrum. His glassy eyes flickered towards her. She pat one of his arms and turned away. He could almost see her sigh, the ink holding her together settling in place, as she accepted his hand and shook it firmly.

"Glad to have you join the team," Sammy said, not sounding glad at all.

Boris elbowed him and signed _be nice._ Sammy merely huffed and turned away.

Norman, oblivious to the tension, offered his hand to Lacie as well. She contemplated him for a moment before shaking his hand. Her head tilted to the wire dangling from his busted speaker and dragged up to the reel lodged in his shoulder, then settled on his head. She made a droning hum, as if wondering how he ended up like that. 

"Let's get going. Don't want to leave Alice waiting, do we?"

Boris scrunched up his snout and Norman's head tilted back as if trying to express his exasperation. Sammy groaned. "Oh, I forgot about her..."

"Oh, yeah. Cartoons are real...as you may have noticed. Alice...sort of wants me dead. She also wants Boris so she can steal his organs." Shaking his head, Henry turned and motioned for them to follow. "And Bendy might want Norman dead now for officially living past his scheduled decapitation."

Even Bertrum managed to look mildly baffled, given the state he was in. Lacie just stared at Henry, unmoving save for the steady drip of her ink.

"I'll never get tired of people's reactions," Sammy hummed, just a hint of amusement in his tone. "You don't know how to lay it on gently, Stein."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. It's funny."

With that, Lacie waved goodbye to Bertrum, whistling a soft note and patting one of the carts. He had a vaguely bittersweet look on his face, before looking away and the panels swung shut. She hunched over, gaze downcast.

"He'll be fine. Who could possibly hurt him?"

"Sammy has a point. Bertrum is perfectly safe." Henry smiled that exhausted smile, and Lacie nodded. "Come on. Let's go."

And off they went.

As they heading towards their destination, it became very apparent Lacie wasn't aware of...a lot of things when it came to the studio. She poked and pet Boris. Much to Sammy's repulsion, she kept trying to touch him and whisk off his mask. She stared at Norman, perhaps itching to get a closer look at his machinery, but didn't touch him. Even with the ink holding her together, she didn't seem to know where it came from, and poked and pulled at strings of ink and loose wire. Henry didn't think she knew about her ink heart.

It was probably the most odd change to the loop yet. A new character he hadn't seen before. The more, the merrier.

He chose to walk right by the cart- just one or even two getting in would be silly with the rest walking alongside. The wooden door didn't open when they approached it. Alice remained silent. That was...concerning, but they could deal with that later.

He lightly tapped Norman's arm. _Could you get the gate?_

He nodded and, with some effort, pushed the old door out. It snapped out of its locked position and swung open loosely, knocking against the side of the tunnel with a dull thump. The ride wasn't on. The cart remained unmoving and the lights stayed off.

"Any idea what we're gonna see at the end of this?"

"Maybe Allison and Tom." Henry shrugged. He genuinely didn't know. "Maybe Alice is waiting for us. She's been quiet ever since we chased her away from Boris." At being reminded of his near-kidnapping, Boris moved just a little closer to him. "Don't worry. We're not letting anyone get you."

Henry motioned for them to stop at the last door. "Okay. Whatever's out there, don't freak out. If it's Alice, I want to talk to her. That meant no revenge murder." Norman crossed his arms. "We're trying to save _everybody_. Are we all good?"

Lacie shrugged. She was just along for the ride, and was already drumming a hand against the wooden door in anticipation.

 _Permission to hit Alice if she hits first?_ Norman asked, and Henry let out a deep sigh. _Just wondering._

"Can't be any worse than dealing with the Ink Demon."

"You have a point." And the door was pushed open. Light from the chandelier flooded in, casting shadows onto the tracks and sandbags stacked upon wooden pallettes.

"We've heard a lot about you," Allison said, sword pointed at them. Behind her, Tom clacked his axe against the palm of his hand, staring them down. "What are you doing here?"

"It's good to see you, too. I can explain everything, just...put the sword down?"

Lacie looked at Tom, then down at where her arm should've been. A hiss escaped her and Tom glared at her. Allison looked between them. "...you recruit the Prophet, you get a Boris to side with you, then you somehow tamed the Projectionist, and now you give life to a robot?"

"I'm not the Prophet anymore, and Henry wasn't the one who did that to L-" Sammy began, and Allison's glare shut him up.

"The mask says otherwise. You're a bad omen around here. Explain yourselves."

"Hey, hey- no need to get worked up..." He pushed Sammy behind him. "This may sound hard to believe at first, but hear me out. I'm stuck in a cycle, and I've come through here a hundred times before. I've met you both before."

"Likely story." Allison looked over at Tom, who scrutinized them before shaking his head. "Hm. Thought so. If you're telling the truth, prove it."

"You're Allison, and that's Tom. Before I broke the cycle, you two would kill Alice in this very room and take me to your hideout. You'd give me the seeing tool."

"The what?" Sammy asked.

"How do you know about that?!" Allison snapped over him, lowering her sword. Tom began to look suspicious. "Are you really telling the truth?"

"Yes. I'll gladly tell you what happens in other cycles, but that's likely not going to happen now. For example, normally Sammy tries to kill me in the Lost Harbor, and Tom puts an axe in his skull."

" _You're_ the one who's meant to kill me?" Sammy exclaimed, and Tom glared back at him. "I refuse to believe I get slain by your filthy paws-"

"To be fair, you'd gone insane and thought I was Bendy. Please calm down."

"Don't fight. Alright. Let's say you _are_ in a time loop of sorts. Why the sudden change?" She set a hand on Tom's shoulder. "Are you trying to escape?"

"Yes. And I'd like to bring you all with me. I will find a way out of this studio, I swear." He stepped closer to them, a soft, tired smile spreading over his face. "You can come with us. I've...I've seen a lot of death, over all these loops... I want to stop it. I want to save everyone."

"...that's a very noble mission, Henry," Allison admitted. She looked at Tom for a long moment, a silent conversation passing between them. "...Tom still doesn't trust the _company_ you've brought with you. Especially...those three." She motioned to Norman, Sammy, and Lacie.

"What's that supposed to mean?!"

"It means you should stop getting ready for a fight every time someone doesn't immediately trust you, Sammy." Setting a hand on his shoulder, he just shook his head. "You shouldn't have to worry about Norman, and Lacie's harmless- I think..." In response, she motioned to Tom's prosthetic arm and made the universal 'I'll be keeping an eye on you' motion.

"Alright, so none of you will kill us, that's good to know... Can 'Norman' even hear what we're saying?" Allison asked, looking directly at the man and squinting in his harsh light. He was staring at them intently, only turning his head ever so slightly to watch whoever was speaking.

"No, he's deaf. He could somewhat use his speaker to express things, but I think it got busted thanks to Bertrum..."

"Tom could probably fix it." The wolf in question stared at her, ears folding back. "What? You _were_ an engineer, after all. It'd be a fun challenge!"

Lacie whistled and pointed at Tom, then herself. "Lacie was an engineer, too." Henry said, and she nodded. _That_ got Tom's attention. "You two could get along!"

"See? These people are less hostile than we originally thought. Plus, if we can find a way out of here... We could join them. Maybe Alice was wrong."

"Wait, what?"

"Oh, right. Alice...I don't know how she can talk without any visible speakers, but she said you were with the Ink Demon. We had heard a lot about how a human had made his way down, deep in the studio. We were preparing for a fight."

"That's not at all what we're- you _believed_ her?"

"Well, you were traveling with the Prophet, so that was rather suspicious. We hate her, but she was right. We thought she was, anyways, but...we had doubts. Guess she just wanted us to kill each other... I'm sorry about that." Tom nodded.

"Thanks for not stabbing me." Henry said. "Will you be leaving? We can still travel together."

"Tom? What do you think?" She looked at her companion, who considered them all for several seconds. He nodded. "That settles it, then. We'll come with you."

"Welcome to the team."


End file.
